“But please tell me now, step-mother—”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me by that name.”
“Well, I can’t call you Mrs Grant; and you are my step-mother, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter—call me anything you like, dear.”
I wished she was not quite so accommodating; but while I looked at her I saw there was a change in her face: there was a purpose in it, a firmness, a sort of upper-hand look as though she did not mean that I, Dumps, should have my own way about everything. She asked me what I had bought for myself, and I said nothing particular, except a few ribbons and things like that.
“They ought to be bought last of all,” she said, “but of course you don’t quite understand this time.”
“Oh!” I said.
“You want a quiet, plain dress; let me recommend you to get it the first thing to-morrow morning. Peter Robinson has some very nice dresses for young girls; and Evans, just a little farther down Oxford Street, has perhaps even smarter costumes. You ought to get a very nice dress for about four guineas. It would be wrong to spend more. A warm coat and a nice short skirt would be the thing. Shall we go to-morrow morning to Evans’s?”
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“But, my dear child, you want a dress. Well, perhaps you will get one of the girls to go with you.”