Half an hour the girls had been in the flowing negligee stage, but they were still intensely busy with the Eleusinian mysteries.
After an interval Carlisle said: "I wonder how many of the people who criticize would put Turkish baths and--and dens in the Works if they had to do it out of their own pockets.... Why under the sun should they?"
"Of course," said Mattie. "(Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.)--I think you're perfectly right, dear...."
"If people don't like the Works as they are, why should they raise heaven and earth begging for jobs there? I wish somebody'd explain that."
"Of course. (Twenty-five.)--And how could Mr. Heth spend thousands and thousands of dollars on such things without taking it right out of your mouth, don't you see?... Oh, gosh!"
"What?"
"Broke my best finger-nail--that's all! Just the tiniest rap on the chair. Where's the file, dear? Oh, Cally, remember, twenty-five.... How provoking!--I do think I've got the brittlest I ever saw ..."
Presently Carlisle, in a flowing silken robe, rose, went over to her dressing-table, seated herself and picked up a round cut-glass jar with a silver top. The jar contained cold cream, or something of that sort. Mattie, having filed down her nail, was now faithfully brushing again, in the forties. Her eyes followed Cally; rested upon her as she sat. These eyes, large, dark, and grave, with the sweetest, curlingest lashes, had been the turning-point in Mattie's life. She had early recognized their unique merits and values, and round them, with infinite pains, she had built up her "type." And now at twenty-three, she was sweet, artless, and full of adorable intellectual dependences, deliciously stupid (with the spectacled young men), and her favorite expression was "poor little Me."
Mattie, brushing, looked at Carlisle, and wondered if she possibly had refused Mr. Canning, and, if so, why Mr. Canning had skipped back just to stay over Sunday and not go near her, and why Cally was so mysterious and secretive all of a sudden. She always told Cally every single thing about her affairs, reporting in detail what was "the most" each man said to her, and always bringing her their letters to read, even Mr. Dudley's, who wrote such perfectly beautiful ones. Cally had always done the same with her, till lately, but now she was a perfect clam. Not a word would she tell about Mr. Canning, and to-night J. Forsythe Avery had proposed at last (Cally said), but she barely mentioned the fact, as if it were of no interest, and declined positively to repeat his words, which was always the interesting (and also the convincing) part of it....
"What's the matter?" said Mattie, aloud and alertly.