“Well—don’t you?”
“Yes, but—but I don’t like to look as if I did! Oh, Cornelia, couldn’t I put on my own dress again, and do my hair the old way? I’d be so much happier!”
“The Grevilles wouldn’t! You’ve got to remember that they are used to finery, and not to having young women sitting round in blue serge in the evening. It seems gaudy to you, but it’s just dead, everyday-level to them, and won’t raise a ripple. You look a Daisy, and I’m proud of you, and if you had a mite of feeling you’d say ‘Thank you,’ instead of finding fault after all my work!”
Elma wheeled round; surprised another glance of tender admiration, and held out impulsive hands.
“Cornelia, you are good! I do thank you; I know quite well that you—you are trying—I do love you, Cornelia!”
“Oh, shucks!” cried Cornelia, hastily. “Don’t gush; I hate gush! Take my arm, and come along downstairs. Lean on it pretty heavily, mind. Your spirit’s too much for your strength, and you are apt to forget that you are an invalid. You’ve got to keep a check on yourself, my dear, and remember that a nervous shock’s a ticklish thing, and needs a lot of tending!”
Elma’s head drooped; she twisted her fingers together, and glanced beneath the lashes at her friend’s face—glanced timidly, questioningly, as it were, in dread.
Cornelia deliberately—winked!