"The fact is," Mona said, laughing, "it has been borne in upon me lately that the youthfulness of my appearance now-a-days is dependent on the absence from the stage of sweet seventeen; so I resolved, like Sir Walter Scott, to strike out in a new line. I aim at dignity now. This"—she glanced over her shoulder at the stately figure in the pier-glass—"is my Waverley. I flatter myself that you young Byrons can't compete with me here."
"No, indeed! Schoolgirl is the word," Lucy said, ruefully stepping in front of Mona to survey her own pretty gown in the pier-glass; but this was so palpably untrue that they all laughed.
"I am sure you looked dignified enough in the blue velvet. I wonder you did not wear your diamonds, Mona, while you were about it?"
"I wanted to, but I did not dare to do it without asking Uncle Douglas, and he would not hear of such a thing. The old darling! He sent me these white orchids to make up. I must go and let him see how they look, before people begin to arrive."
But Sir Douglas was only half pleased with Mona's gown.
"It is all very well in a crowd like this, perhaps," he said, "but don't wear that dowager plumage when we are by ourselves."
An hour later the rooms were full, and a crowd had gathered in the street below to listen to the music, and to catch an occasional glimpse of fair faces and dainty gowns.
Several professional singers had been engaged, but when most of the people had gone down to supper, and the music-room was half empty, Sir Douglas begged Mona to sing.
"We want something to rest our nerves," he said, "after all that. Sing that little thing of Beethoven's."
He had heard her singing it in her own room one day, when she did not know he was within hearing, and the pathetic song had been a favourite with him ever since.