“You are very brusque, Eva—here are the hairpins, and the brush is in that drawer.”
Eva held the mass of auburn hair in her fingers, and softly brushed it off the delicate temples of her mother.
“I am afraid, dear child, you have lost a great deal of your ladylike grace since you have been a regular attendant at these public tournaments. You associate with such a queer lot there; I am sure it must be fatal to good manners.”
In a few seconds Eva had wound the rich coils of hair into a Grecian knot on the shapely head of her mother.
“You look a perfect dear, mother; so like the Medici Venus—you don’t know how perfectly lovely you are.” The girl kissed Lady Carey and sat at her feet.
“My poor child, I do not know what is to become of us all.”
“You need not be anxious, mother”—Eva leaned her graceful head on her mother’s lap. “It is useless to try to stem the tide; nothing that you can ever do will prevent what has to be.”
“What do you aim at, child?” asked Lady Carey, as she tidied her combs and brushes.
“Nothing, mother—but—I often crave for freedom.”
“Is there anything you want to say, Eva?” Lady Carey laid her hand on the girl’s hair. “I have heard and seen such strange things lately, that I might just as well know all.”