“Her best gown’ll look meaner, if all the lace be hung with cobwebs, and all the frilling lined with apple-parings,” said Temperance.
“She’ll take better care of it than so, I hope,” said Edith. “And a lawn gown should be cold for this season.”
“Well, let the child wear her brown kersey. That’ll not spoil so much as some.”
In her heart Lettice hoped she would not have to wear the brown kersey. Brown was such an ugly colour! and the kersey, already worn two seasons, was getting shabby—far too shabby to wear at a party. She would have liked to put on her best. But no girl of twenty, unmarried, at that date decided such matters for herself.
“Oh, never that ugly thing!” said Mrs Louvaine. “I mean her to wear my pearls, and that brown stuff—”
Wear Aunt Faith’s pearls! Lettice’s heart beat.
“Faith, my dear, I would not have the child use ornaments,” said Lady Louvaine quietly. “You wot, those of our way of thinking do commonly discard them. Let us not give occasion for scandal. I would have Lettice go neat and cleanly, and not under her station, but no more.”
The palpitations of Lettice’s heart sobered down. Of course she could not expect to wear pearls and such worldly vanities. Grandmother was always right.
“I can tell you, Mrs Gertrude and Mrs Anne shall not be in brown kersey,” said Mrs Louvaine, in her usual petulant tone. “And if Aubrey don him not in satin and velvet, my name is not Faith.”
“It shouldn’t have been, my dear, for it isn’t your nature,” was her sister’s comment.