“Yes, mother.”
“It’s disgraceful that a big girl like you—a girl nearly eighteen—should not be able to do her own hair!”
“Yes, mother.”
“You wouldn’t like to be known as the girl with the untidy hair, I suppose, or to have a collapse of this sort in church or in the street?”
“No, mother.”
“Then pray, my dear, be more careful. Don’t let me have to speak again.”
“I’ll try, mother. A rough head, but a loving heart! You might kiss me now and say you’re sorry, for you stuck two hair-pins right into my scalp, and I never winced!”
Mrs Rendell smiled, and laid a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek. For one moment her dignified airs seemed to vanish, and nothing but motherly tenderness shone in her eyes, but the next she drew herself up again, stiff as a little poker, and said lightly—
“Nonsense, nonsense! Get up, child, and don’t be ridiculous! Sit on that high chair, and don’t stoop! I can’t endure to see a young girl lounging on a couch. What is this new scheme that you wish to ask me about to-night?”
“Mother dear, you know you like us to be charitable! You are always preaching—er, I mean impressing upon us—that we ought to remember the poah,” said Christabel, standing up as stiff as a grenadier, and smiling at her mother in her most ingratiating manner. Mrs Rendell would have died rather than acknowledge a special weakness towards any member of her flock; but as a matter of fact her youngest-born possessed a power of wheedling favours which none of her sisters could boast, and was herself agreeably conscious of the fact, and fond of putting it to the test. “I am sure you will approve of our scheme, and feel pleased with us for thinking of it. It’s for the Mission. We thought of getting up a little sale among ourselves, and giving the proceeds towards the funds.”