‘I never did!’ cried Nita, indignation getting the better of reluctance. ‘I think Aunt Margaret’s taste in bonnets is horrible.’
‘Well, which is the shop? I shall consider myself entitled to go in and preside over the purchase, under the circumstances.’
‘That is the shop at the end of the street, if you will go. But I am in no state to buy bonnets.’
‘No?’ he said, looking at her, intently. ‘I should have thought—well, you do look a little pale, perhaps. But I shall be able to tell you what suits you. Here we are.’
He handed her out, and pushing open the shop-door, he stood by for her to pass: then followed, saw her sudden start and recoil, and heard the exclamation:
‘Aunt Margaret!’
‘The deuce!’ murmured Jerome, discomfited for the moment; but instantly recovering himself, he too advanced, and, like Nita, confronted Miss Margaret Shuttleworth.
She looked very stern and terrible. She was standing upright before a tall glass, attired in the full panoply requisite for a visit to town—perfectly upright, and perfectly self-possessed. One article only of her attire was wanting, and that was her bonnet, which lay on a chair hard by, while over her straight grey hair was visible a little black silk cap, such as elderly ladies wear, or did wear, beneath their bonnets—and which cap, when not yet covered by the superior headdress, imparts a look of hardness to the gentlest countenance. Its effect upon the severe features of Miss Shuttleworth gave an additional terror to her glance, and additional sternness to her eye. A slight young woman held in her hand a bonnet, which she was apparently about to place upon Miss Shuttleworth’s head, when that lady, with a wave of the hand, stopped her, and replied to Nita’s astonished exclamation:
‘Yes, it is Aunt Margaret. What of that?’
‘Nothing, aunt dear. But I was so astonished to see you. I thought you had got a bonnet.’