Anything so shrewd as Mabel Smith’s manner in saying this, was never seen. I don’t think she was naturally ill-natured, poor thing; but she evidently thought she was being wronged amongst them, and it made her spitefully resentful.
“Mr. Everty had better let her go. It is not I that would marry a wife who dyed her hair.”
“Is Miss Chalk’s dyed? I thought it might be the gold dust.”
“Have you any eyes?” retorted Mabel. “When she was down in the country with you her hair was brown; it’s a kind of yellow now. Oh, she knows how to set herself off, I can tell you. Do you happen to remember who was reigning in England when the massacre of St. Bartholomew took place in France?”
The change of subject was sudden. I told her it was Queen Elizabeth.
“Queen Elizabeth, was it? I’ll write it down. Mrs. Smith says I shall have no dessert to-day, if I don’t tell her. She puts those questions only to vex me. As if it mattered to anybody. Oh, here’s papa!”
A little man came in with a bald head and pleasant face. He said he was glad to see me and shook hands. She put out her arms, and he came and kissed her: her eyes followed him everywhere; her cheeks had a sudden colour: it was easy to see that he was her one great joy in life. And the bright colour made her poor thin face look almost charming.
“I can’t stay a minute, Trottie; going out in a hurry. I think I left my gloves up here.”
“So you did, papa. There was a tiny hole in the thumb and I mended it for you.”