"Mrs. Dumps' daughter. Zara, she calls herself, when I know that she was christened simple Sarah. Not that she is simple, my dear, for a more cunning fox isn't to be found, with her red hair--dyed--and her cream complexion and red cheeks, which are nothing but pearl-powder and rouge, drat her, and her mother also, for a fool!"
Clarice knew Mrs. Dumps, and also had frequently seen Sarah Dumps, but had never for one moment thought that Ferdy would be attracted by such a bold, chattering girl, who flirted indiscriminately with every man, good-looking or plain. "I thought Sarah had gone to London."
"So she has!" said Mrs. Rebson, fiercely, "she went over a year ago, and with her good looks--all paint and dye--and brazen impudence--ah, that's genuine enough--she pushed her way on to the stage."
"So Mrs. Dumps told me," said Miss Baird. "Sarah is dancing and singing at some West-end music-hall."
"She is that, and fine dancing it is, I don't doubt--the hussy. I'd rather see a child of mine in her grave than capering as a butterfly before gentry."
"Butterflies don't caper, Nanny."
"This one does," sniffed the old woman, viciously. "She calls herself Butterfly on the stage."
"The Butterfly?"
"No--just Butterfly, when she ought to be called Cat. Well, then, my love, Mrs. Dumps, who is a cousin of mine (and I don't think much of her dressing and screeching like a peacock) called to see me the other day, and told me that Master Ferdy had been seeing Sarah--I can't bring myself to call her Zara--such affectation. He's been driving and talking and walking, and giving her presents, and Mrs. Dumps, who is a born fool, thinks that Master Ferdy means marriage."
Clarice started to her feet. "Oh, Nanny!"