“Do you like that new shade of Mrs Fortescue’s hair or do you not, Brenda?”
“I did not notice it,” said Brenda.
“Well, I did; and I think it is hideous. What blouse will you put on, Brenda?”
“I don’t know: that pink one; won’t that do?”
“No, it doesn’t suit you. Wear white; I am going to.”
Both sisters put on white blouses made in the extreme of the fashion. Florence’s hair was one of her great beauties. It was of a very rich golden brown. She had quantities of it, and it had the natural fussiness and inclination to wave which made artificial means of producing that result unnecessary. Brenda’s hair was of a pale brown, without any wave or curl, but it was soft and thick and glossy. Brenda’s eyes were exactly the same colour as her hair, and she had rather pale eyebrows. Her face was quite a nice little one, but not beautiful. Florence’s face was beautiful—that is, it was beautiful at times. It could flash with animation, and her eyes could express scorn. She had a changing colour, too, and full red lips which revealed pearly teeth. Her looks were decidedly above the average, and there was a mocking light in her eyes which repelled and captivated at the same time.
Arm in arm, the two sisters went downstairs to the cosy drawing-room, where Mrs Fortescue was waiting for them.
“Ah, that is right, my loves. It is nice to see you both. Now I think I am entitled to a kiss, am I not?”
Florence went straight up at once and kissed the good lady on her forehead. Brenda did likewise.
“Aren’t you hungry?” said Mrs Fortescue.