“Then, Mrs Lettice, will you step in about nine o’clock? My maids’ll be fain to see you. And if any of you gentlewomen should have a liking to look in—”
“Nay, the girls should count us spoil-sports,” said Edith, laughingly.
“Now come, Mrs Edith! ’tis not so long since you were a young maid.”
“Twelve good years, Mrs Rookwood: as long, pretty nigh, as Hester Abbott has been in the world.”
“Eh, but years don’t go for much, not with some folks.”
“Not with them that keep the dew of their youth,” said Lady Louvaine with a smile. “But to do that, friend, a woman should dwell very near to Him who only hath immortality.”
It was something so unusual for one of this sober household to go out to a party, that a flutter arose, when Mrs Rookwood had departed, concerning Lettice’s costume.
“She had best go in a washing gown,” was the decision of her practical Aunt Temperance. “If she’s to be any good with the apples, she must not wear her Sunday best.”
Lettice’s Sunday best was not of an extravagant character, being a dark green perpetuana gown, trimmed with silver lace, a mantle of plum-coloured cloth, and a plum-coloured hood lined with dark green.
“But a washing gown, Temperance! It should look so mean,” objected Mrs Louvaine.