The three girls, each with the help of the other, managed to array themselves even to Briar’s satisfaction. She was the neatest and also the vainest of the Dales. When she reached the outside corridor she met Verena, looking sweet, gentle, and charming in her pale-blue blouse. They all ran down to the drawing-room, where Miss Tredgold was waiting to receive them. She wore the old black lace dress, which suited her faded charms to perfection. She was standing by the open French window, and turned as her nieces came in. The girls expected her to make some remark with regard to their appearance, but the only thing she said was to ask them to observe the exquisite sunset.
Presently Pauline appeared. She looked pale. There were black shadows under her eyes, and she was wearing a dirty white shirt decidedly the worse for wear. The other girls looked at her in astonishment. Verena gave her a quick glance of pain. Verena understood; the others were simply amazed. Miss Tredgold flashed one glance at her, and did not look again in her direction.
Dinner was announced in quite the orthodox fashion, and the young people went into the dining-room. Mr. Dale was present. He was wearing quite a decent evening suit. He had not the faintest idea that he was not still in the old suit that had lain by unused and neglected for so many long years. He had not the most remote conception that Miss Tredgold had taken that suit and sent it to a tailor in London and desired him to make by its measurements a new suit according to the existing vogue. Mr. Dale put on the new suit when it came, and imagined that it was the old one. But, scholar as he was, he was learning to appreciate the excellent meals Miss Tredgold provided for him. On this occasion he was so human as to find fault with a certain entrée.
“This curry is not hot enough,” he said. “I like spicy things; don’t you, Sophia?”
Miss Tredgold thought this an enormous sign of mental improvement. She had already spoken to cook on the subject of Mr. Dale’s tastes.
“Why, drat him!” was Betty’s somewhat indignant answer. “In the old days he didn’t know sprats from salmon, nor butter from lard. Whatever have you done to him, ma’am?”
“I am bringing him back to humanity,” was Miss Tredgold’s quiet answer.
Betty raised her eyebrows. She looked at Miss Tredgold and said to herself:
“So quiet in her ways, so gentle, and for all so determined! Looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth; yet you daren’t so much as neglect the smallest little sauce for the poorest little entrée or you’d catch it hot. She’s a real haristocrat. It’s a pleasure to have dealings with her. Yes, it’s a downright pleasure. When I’m not thinking of my favorite ’ero of fiction, the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton, I feel that I’m doing the next best thing when I’m receiving the orders of her ladyship.”
Another of cook’s ideas was that Miss Tredgold was a person of title, who chose for the present to disguise the fact. She certainly had a marvellous power over the erratic Betty, and was turning her into a first-rate cook.