"Well?" said Mr. Dormer-Smith, looking interrogatively with raised eyebrows at his wife.
"Oh yes, Frederick; very nice indeed, very satisfactory. I was very much pleased. I had been a little anxious about the effect of the corsage, but Amélie has done herself great credit. And, mercifully, white suits our dear child to perfection. She really looked very well."
"Did I, Aunt Pauline? Well, I'm sure it didn't much matter how I looked."
"Didn't matter!" echoed Mrs. Dormer-Smith in a shocked tone.
"Oh, come, May!" cried her uncle. "I thought you were above that sort of nonsense. Do you mean to tell me that you don't care about looking pretty?"
"Oh no! I mean—well, I did think my dress was lovely when I looked at myself in the big glass upstairs; but in that crush who could see it? And I was awfully afraid that Aunt Pauline's lace flounce would be torn completely off the skirt."
Her uncle laughed. "You don't appear to have altogether enjoyed your first appearance as a courtier," said he.
"Enjoyed! Oh, who could enjoy it?" Then, fearful of seeming ungrateful, she added, "It was very, very kind of Aunt Pauline to take so much trouble, and to get me that beautiful dress."
May had not been accustomed to think about ways and means. It had seemed a matter of course that her daily wants should be supplied, and she had hitherto bestowed no more thought on the matter than a young bird in the nest. But it was impossible for her to live as a member of the Dormer-Smiths' family without having the question of money brought forcibly to her mind. There were small pinchings and savings of a kind utterly unknown in Friar's Row; elaborate calculations were made as to the possibility of this or that expenditure; Aunt Pauline frequently lamented her poverty; and yet, withal, there was kept up an appearance of wealth and elegance. May was not long in discovering the seamy side of all the luxury which surrounded her; and it amazed her. Why should her aunt so arrange her life as to derive very little comfort from very strenuous effort? And what puzzled her most of all at first was the air of conscious virtue with which this was done: the strange way in which Aunt Pauline would mention some piece of meanness or insincerity as though it were an act of loftiest duty. On one or two occasions May had innocently suggested a straightforward way out of some social difficulty; such as wearing an old gown when a new one could not be afforded, or refusing an invitation which could only be accepted at the cost of much bodily and mental harass. But these childish suggestions had been met by an indulgent smile; and she had been told that such and such things must be done or endured in order to keep up the family's position in society. Once May had asked, "Then why should we keep up our position in society?" But her aunt had shown such genuine consternation at this impious inquiry, that the girl did not venture to repeat it.
Another question, however, soon forced itself upon May—namely, how it came to pass that, under all the circumstances, so much money was spent on her dress. Besides the court train and petticoat, her aunt had provided for her a wardrobe which, to the young girl's inexperienced eyes, appeared absolutely splendid (for Pauline's conscience, although cramped and squeezed into artificial shape like a Chinese lady's foot, was alive and sentient; and she would on no account have failed to expend "May's money" for May's advantage): and yet all the while there were the two little boys in their comfortless nursery, wearing coarse clothing and shabby shoes; and there was Cecile toiling at needlework instead of attending to the children, in order that the cost of a seamstress might be saved! On this subject May felt that she had a right to interrogate her aunt; and accordingly she took courage to do so. Mrs. Dormer-Smith was considerably embarrassed, and made an attempt to fence off the subject. But May persisted.