“You mean to use your dress-cupboard as a darkroom for photography?” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “My dear child, you will have little time for photography when you are introduced to Her Majesty, and are in the full swing of a society career.”
“But, mother, I never mean to be in such a truly awful position,” cried Marjorie.
Her mother knitted her brows anxiously.
“For goodness’ sake, Marjorie, don’t worry Aunt Helen the first evening,” cried Lettie.—“Dear Aunt Helen, everything will be right—quite right. The girls
have a crank, each of them; but these delightful rooms and you, dear Aunt Helen, ought to cure them in no time.—Now, girls, do get off those horrid dresses and get into respectable ones.—They have respectable dresses, I assure you, Aunt Helen. If you will leave us, we will all come down to the drawing-room in less than a quarter of an hour.”
“And here is Esther to wait on you,” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “You may as well dress for dinner now that you are about it, and I will have tea sent up to you to your rooms. We dine at half-past seven.”
She left the room as she spoke, and Esther, a nice-looking girl, came respectfully forward. She looked with consternation at the torn braid on Eileen’s dress.
“Oh, please, don’t bother about me,” said Eileen. “I wouldn’t have the services of a maid to save my life. I hate to have anyone touch my hair but myself. Besides, as you doubtless observe, my good girl, there is no arrangement necessary. It is only an inch long, and with a couple of brushes, one in each hand, I can push it into any position I like. Lettie, if you wish for Esther, please have her. Your neat little head, ‘sunning over with curls,’ requires plenty of arrangement; but not mine, thank goodness.”
“Nor mine either,” echoed Marjorie. “Oh, what a comfort it is to have short hair. I never mean to let my locks grow.”
“Which dresses will you wish to wear this evening, young ladies?” asked Esther, who had gaped in astonishment while the girls were speaking.