"Well, well, there is no use to be jealous of the dead. Vera Campbell was beautiful, certainly, but Leslie never cared for her, you know," Mrs. Cleveland answers, impatiently.
"Precious little he cares for me, either," her daughter complains. "He pretended to love me once, but he has dropped even the pretense long ago!"
"What does it matter? You are his wife, and spend his money all the same," Mrs. Cleveland answers, heartlessly. "Come, Ivy, if you mean to attend the ball to-night, it's time to be off. For Heaven's sake, smooth those ugly frowns off your face before we reach Lady Spencer's, or people will think you old and ugly in spite of your diamonds."
Ivy's pale eyes flash with rage at the cool reminder, but she is wise enough to know that her mother is speaking for her good. She dabs on a little more pearl powder, takes up her white satin cloak lined with snowy swan's-down, and with a fond, farewell glance into the mirror, turns to go.
"You need not fear for me, mamma," she says, summoning a smile to her painted lips. "I shall be as bright and smiling as the Countess of Fairvale herself. But I wonder where Leslie can be! He drank so much wine at dinner that I am afraid he is in no condition to attend us."
A door opens suddenly to her right, and Mr. Noble appears in full evening dress, his face somewhat flushed, but looking otherwise none the worse for the wine his wife deplores. He looks ungraciously at his resplendent wife.
"So you have got on all your war-paint," he sneers. "How ridiculously over-dressed you are, Ivy. You make one think of a jeweler's show-window. A pity you could not have bored a hole through your nose, and hung a diamond there, too."
"A pity you drank enough wine at dinner to make you a drunken boor," she retorts angrily.