“Are the three young men nice?”
“Oh, my dear, what does it matter? There aren’t enough of them to count. Bob Ainslie is one; he used to come over to umpire for the boys’ cricket matches. You remember him—freckles and stick-out ears. He has a moustache now. I expect he’s quite nice, but he is not exciting. Another is Frank Ross, at the Manor House—I believe he is generally in town. And that nice old Mrs Seton has a son, too. He’s handsome; I’ve seen him riding along the lanes; but, of course, he doesn’t pay afternoon calls. What are you to do in a neighbourhood where there are no nice girls, and two and a half young men?”
“Improve your mind!” returned Dreda glibly. “Providence evidently doesn’t mean you to move in the social round. Perhaps if you had, you’d have grown proud and worldly. I think myself you would, for I saw symptoms of it before we left town. Perhaps you’ve got to be chastened—” Dreda stopped short with a hasty remembrance that she had promised to sympathise, not exhort, and added hurriedly: “Maud’s enough to chasten anyone! It’s sickening for you, dear, for you would have had lots of fun, and been the belle wherever you went. Let’s pretend the Hunt Ball is to-night, and you are going to make your début, a radiant vision in white satin—no, satin’s too stiff!—silver tissue. Yes, yes! Silver tissue—how perfectly lovely!—and a parure of matchless diamonds flashing like a river of light upon your snowy neck.”
“Débutantes don’t wear diamonds, and it’s not snowy. These boned collar bands leave horrid red marks. An antique medallion of crystal and pearl swung on a silver chain—”
Dreda pranced up and down on her chair in delighted appreciation.
“Yes! Yes! You’re splendid, Ro; you know just what to say! And a feather fan, with a tiny mirror let into the sticks; dear little silver shoes with buckles, and a single white rosebud tucked in your hair below your ear. That’s the place they always put it in books. It would fall out before the first waltz was over, but no matter! Then your opera cloak. That must be white, too—ermine, I think, or perhaps white fox, worth hundreds and hundreds, that a Russian prince had sent you in token of his devotion. Oh, my dear, my dear; what an angel you would look!”
Rowena laughed gaily. Her cheeks had grown pink, and her blue eyes sparkled with enjoyment.
“Dreda, Dreda! What a mad hatter you are! Where did you get such ridiculous ideas?”
But it was evident that the ideas, ridiculous though they might be, were by no means unpleasing, and Dreda was about to venture forth on a fresh flight of imagination when, to the annoyance of the sisters, the door opened and Maud, the stolid and unimaginative, stood on the threshold.
“No admittance, Maud. Go away! We’re having a private talk.”