Pauline did not pursue the subject, but she reflected within herself that there are schoolgirls and schoolgirls.
There had been some discussion as to who should present May. Mrs. Dormer-Smith was of opinion that had there been a Viscountess Castlecombe, the office would properly have devolved on her ladyship; but old Lord Castlecombe had been a widower for many years. At length it was decided that May should be presented by her aunt.
"I know it is a great risk for me to go out décolletée on an English spring day," said that devoted woman. "And Lady Burlington would do it if I asked her. But I wish to carry out the duty I have undertaken towards Augustus's daughter, as thoroughly as my strength will allow. Under all the circumstances of the case, it is important that she should be publicly acknowledged, and, as it were, identified with the family. Of course, I shall feel justified in buying my gown out of May's money."
"May's money" had come to be the phrase by which the Dormer-Smiths spoke of the payment made by Mrs. Dobbs for her grand-daughter.
But besides the comforting sense of duty fulfilled, there were other compensations in store for Mrs. Dormer-Smith. May's presentation dress was pronounced exquisite, and was ready in good time; and May herself profited satisfactorily by the instructions of a fashionable professor of deportment, in the difficult art of walking and curtsying in a train. To be sure, she had alarmed her aunt at first, by going into fits of laughter when describing Madame Melnotte's lessons, and imitating the impressive gravity with which the dancing-mistress went through the dumb show of a presentation at Court. But she did what she was told to do, not only with docility, but with an unaffected simplicity which Aunt Pauline's good taste perceived to be infinitely charming. And she said to her husband that she really began to hope May would be "a great success."
The great day of the Drawing-room came and went, as do all days, great or small. But whether she had been a success or a failure, in her aunt's sense of the words, May had not the remotest idea. Indeed, the various feelings on the subject of her presentation which had filled her breast beforehand (including a genuine delight in her own appearance as she stood before the big looking-glass, while Smithson put the finishing touches to her head-dress), were all swallowed up in the supreme feeling of thankfulness that it was over; and that she had not disgraced herself by tumbling over her train, or otherwise shocking the eyes of august personages. Also, in a minor degree, she was thankful that Aunt Pauline's antique lace-flounce—a portion of the dowager's legacy lent for the occasion—had escaped destruction. On their drive homeward, she sat silent, trying to extricate some definite image from her confused impressions of the ceremony, and finding that her most distinct recollection recorded the pressure of a persistent and ruthless elbow against her ribs. Mrs. Dormer-Smith, too, was too much exhausted to say much. She leaned back in the carriage with closed eyes, wrapping her furs round her, and sniffing at a bottle of salts.
But when refreshed by a glass of wine, and seated in a well-cushioned chair before a blazing fire, Mrs. Dormer-Smith felt very well satisfied with the result of the day. Mrs. Griffin had been there, and had nodded approvingly across a struggling crowd of bare shoulders; and Mrs. Griffin's approbation was worth having. Mr. Dormer-Smith came home from his club a full hour earlier than usual, in order to hear the report—a proof of interest which May, not being a whist-player, was unable fully to appreciate.
"Well," said Pauline, with a kind of pious serenity, "we have accomplished this somewhat trying social duty."
"Trying, indeed," exclaimed May. "I'm afraid you are dreadfully tired, Aunt Pauline. And the crowd and closeness made your head ache, I saw. How is your head now?"
"It is better, dear, much better."