Emily clung to the back of her chair.
“I had to, mama. They’re horrid and white.”
“Good Lord, that minx is teaching my daughter to paint her face! Mama, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Can’t you watch your own children?” bellowed Mr. Carter, beside himself.
“Emmy, I’m ashamed!” Poor Mrs. Carter sat gasping, her mouth open. “I never dreamed—what’s that on your nose?”
Emily seized her handkerchief and began to rub the offending feature.
“It’s nothing, mama—just a little liquid powder.”
“You march up-stairs and wash your face!” said her father. “Hear me? Don’t let me catch you painting up like that—singing doll!”
Emily began to cry.
“It’s—it’s nothing, papa. Everybody does it. The girls think I look so nice.”
“Wash your face!” shouted her father. “March up and wash your face!”