“But I am enchanted! They are exquisite. And all the girls have been begging me for my picture. But when were they taken, my aunt?”
“Folly snapped her kodak at you, the day of the race, and had the print enlarged. I found the lockets at Interlaken. Now you know as much as I do. Glad you like them!”
“And—oh! and my hair looks dark!” cried Honor. “It really does!”
“Yes, that is the only trouble with the likeness. Red hair should be powdered before photographing, or it looks perfectly black.”
“Oh, if it only were!” cried poor Honor. “I have always longed so for dark hair, madame. In America—would it be wicked if I blacked it, my aunt? It is wicked in Switzerland, our Sister says.”
“It would be idiotic,” said Mrs. Damian, “which is more to the point. Don’t be an idiot, child, whatever else you are. Look! Here is your dressing-case. Like it?”
But here Honor became speechless. Darkest green morocco, lined with satin, fitted with brushes, combs, and innumerable bottles, all in warm-white ivory, all marked—H.B. What could fourteen-year-old Honor say at sight of this marvel? She could only gasp, and clasp her hands together. It was some minutes before she managed to stammer out,
“I am combled! I am altogether combled, madame! What generosity, what goodness!”
“You like it?” repeated Mrs. Damian, watching her with evident pleasure.
“I have dreamed of such a thing!” said Honor. “I never thought to see one. Can it possibly be actually mine, madame?”