Chapter Seven.
Despite her growing indifference towards neighbouring festivities, Katrine could not resist a thrill of excitement in preparing for the Barfield Garden Party, which was in truth no ordinary local function, but an important, almost a national, fête. Among the guests royalty itself might appear; foreign potentates, ambassadors, distinguished politicians, disciples of the arts and sciences would be on show on the wide lawns, and within the splendid rooms of the old Castle. It would be, as Katrine herself had said, a very Zoological Garden of lions, among whom an insignificant spinster from a country town must of necessity appear the smallest of small fry.
Martin, of course, owned a roar of his own, a minor roar, but still distinguishable among the rest, but his sister had no claim to celebrity. Her aim was theoretically to see, not to be seen, but the theory did not prevent a lengthy and painstaking toilette.
It was only a simple ninon dress, it was only a home-made hat, she owned neither jewels nor laces, nor valuable accessories of any sort to give a cachet to the whole, but considering these deficiencies there was the more reason for being thankful for a graceful figure, for a face with well-cut features, and deep, level eyes.
Surveying the completed toilette in her glass Katrine first smirked and then sighed. “Very praiseworthy considering, but when I see Grizel, she will knock the conceit out of me!” she said to herself as she put the dressing-table in order with a few swift touches, and crossed the passage to tap at the door of the guest chamber.
“May I come in?”
“What ho!” sounded cheerily from within, and Katrine entered to behold a Romney picture in grey chiffon pirouetting before the glass, a ridiculous buckram bandeau pressed turban-like on her head, to which she was endeavouring to anchor a vast hat, encircled by sweeping white feathers. The feathers swept, they did not soar, a Grizel-like distinction between beauty and fashion; there was not a touch of colour about her, except for the coral brightness of her lips. Katrine felt an instant conviction that ninon was heavy, that colour was vulgar, that every item of her own toilette was detestable and ill-chosen. She stood staring in the doorway, and even as she stood the door of Martin’s room opened, at the opposite side of the passage.
He would have passed on without a glance towards the opened room; Katrine in her friend’s place would have dodged hastily into a corner rather than have been discovered in the unbecoming stage of bandeau sans hat, but Grizel hailed him with a cheerful cry:
“Halloa, you man thing! Look upon me, and thank your stars you are not a woman. I’ve got to balance this tent upon my head, and nothing short of clamps will do it. And there’s one hairpin, a fiendish anarchist of a hairpin, simply stacking into my scalp! ... Which would you rather,—keep the car waiting while I take it down and do it again, or have me scratching at my head all the afternoon, at the most compromising moments? Put your fingers in, Katrine! Prod about! Can you feel it? Not that one, no! For the land’s sake don’t scatter my curls on the floor. That’s him! That’s him! Good girl! ... What a mussiful relief... Now for the skewers... Deadly, ain’t they? But I have screws for the ends, so you can be aisey... The question of the hour is, Martin—do you love me better in a veil, or without?”