“I should like,” said Miss Grantham blandly, “to borrow your garnets, Aunt Lizzie, if you please.”
Lady Bellingham found her voice. “Garnets? With that dress? You cannot! Deb, for the love of heaven!”
“They are just what I need,” said Deborah, going to the dressing-table, and opening the jewel-casket that stood on it. “You’ll see!”
Lady Bellingham covered her eyes with her hand. “I don’t want to see!” she said. “You look—you look like some dreadful creature from the stage!”
“Yes, I think I do too,” replied her niece, apparently pleased. “Oh, do but look, aunt! Nothing could be more vulgar!”
Lady Bellingham permitted herself one glance at the garnets flashing round Deborah’s throat, and in the lobes of her ears, and gave a groan. “You cannot mean to go out looking such a figure of fun. I implore you, Deb, take off that shocking head!”
“Not for the world!” said Deborah, clasping a couple of bracelets round her wrists. “But I must paint my face a little, and put on just one patch.”
“No one wears patches now!” protested her aunt. “Oh, Deb, what are you about? And why did you have your hair powdered, pray? It makes you look thirty years old at least! For heaven’s sake, child, if you must wear a patch let it be a small one, not that great vulgar thing!”
Miss Grantham gave a gurgle of laughter, and stood back to survey her image in the mirror. “Dear Aunt Lizzie, I told you that I was going to be vulgar! I look famous!”
“Deb!” said her aunt, in anguished accents. “Do but think of that poor young Mablethorpe! How can you be so unfeeling as to go out in his company looking so odd? He will very likely be ready to sink into the ground!”