“Letitia has not yet spoken,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.—“What are your wishes, my love?”
“Well, of course, Aunt Helen, I should like a society-life very much.”
“But you’re just not going to have it, Lettie,” said Eileen. “You’ll have to do exactly what we do. We have no idea of having our own mother fagged to death; an old woman like mother taken out day and night at all hours, just to give you a jolly time.”
“But, really, my dears, I am not an old woman,” said Mrs. Chetwynd indignantly.
“Well, mother, you are not as young as you used to be. You are forty, if you are a day, and no one at forty can be called a chicken. It’s much more healthy for you to go to bed in good time. Oh, I have read a lot about society and all its trash. It just encourages one to be terribly immoral.”
“Immoral! my dear Eileen. It’s awful to hear you speak.”
“But it’s true, mother. For instance, people tell no
end of fibs—lies I call them. They say they are not at home when they are; they pretend to be delighted to see a person who in reality they loathe. Oh, I am acquainted with the ghastly round; and if you think I am going to let myself in for it you are mistaken. But, dear old mammy, you shan’t be worried any longer; we will go out with you now, and we’ll be as good as gold, and you shall get us each a new dark-blue serge dress and a new sailor hat, and a pair of thick dogskin gloves. Surely that is enough.”
“And what about evening dresses, and Sunday dresses, and visiting dresses?” said Mrs. Chetwynd.
“As to Sunday dresses,” cried Marjorie, “I don’t see why neat serge dresses should not do quite well for church; and as to visiting dresses, we do not intend to visit in the ordinary sense. The friend who does not wish to see us in our serge costumes we do not intend to cultivate.”