“Who called you a frump?” her mother asked severely.
“N-no one—but Fanchon says the people here are all provincials and frumps—all of them!” stormed Emily. “And I think we’re awful frumps ourselves!”
Mrs. Carter gazed at her in a dazed way; then she retreated to her rocking-chair.
“Emily, you go up-stairs and rip those inside bastes out of that skirt. It looks frightful; it hangs all up and down in waves! And listen—”
Emily, still sniffing violently, was half-way to the stairs.
“Listen, Emily, you take off those stockings, too. They’re vulgar. If you don’t, I’ll have to do it myself.”
“I don’t see why I can’t wear them!” Emily stormed. “I’m grown up, I’m sixteen, and Fanchon has a pair like them.”
Mrs. Carter flushed.
“You go up-stairs and take them off!” she cried, with her first dash of anger. “I don’t want my girl to look like Fanchon!”
Emily grasped the banisters and shouted.