“She?” said Hermione. “Poor darling! it was her greatest desire to tell you—in fact, she had quite made up her mind to do so—but she received a most urgent letter from your father saying that he would infinitely prefer none of you to know until after the ceremony. You mustn’t blame her.”
“I think it was exceedingly wrong to deceive me,” I said.
“It was not her fault; you must not blame her.”
I was silent. On the whole, my step-mother’s conduct could not seem quite so black if she herself had been forced to act as she did. Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable.
Hermione glanced at me.
“You look very much better,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Not that you are dressed so wonderfully well—of course, I shouldn’t dream of making any comments with regard to your dress; but then you were quite exquisitely attired the last time you came here. Mother said she had never seen anything so chic in all her life as that little dark-blue costume with the grey fur; and it suited you so well.”
I was wearing one of my summer dresses which my step-mother had altered for me shortly after she came to us. It was made of pale-blue crepon, which had been rather ugly, but she had put on a beautiful lace tucker, and had arranged the skirt so that my growing length of limb was not so discernible.
“It isn’t your dress,” continued Hermione—“never mind about it—nobody cares what any one else wears on Christmas Day—but it is your face.”