Chapter Six.
Dusters.
Monday morning brought considerable improvement. That is to say, Leila, having no book to read, and in her secret heart still faithful to the character of innocent and unappreciated martyr which she had imagined for herself, got out of bed almost as soon as she was awakened, dressed herself in silent dignity, and even offered to help Christabel.
“No thank you,” Chrissie replied loftily, “I don’t want any one to do anything for me except tying my hair, and Harriet can do that much, I suppose.”
“Mother has told her to come for ten minutes, at eight,” Leila replied meekly, glancing at Chrissie, and at the little bee-clock on the mantelpiece, which told that eight o’clock was fast approaching; much nearer at hand, according to present appearances, than the completion of Chrissie’s toilet.
“And you think I won’t be ready,” replied Chrissie. “Well then, you’ll just see,” and she rushed at her clothes in a rapid but very helter-skelter fashion, stopping, however, with her skirt half over her head, to have another fling at Leila. “What’s the matter with you this morning?” she said. “Why do you say ‘mother,’” and she copied her sister’s subdued tone of voice in a very irritating way, “like that? What a prig you can be, Leila! For my part I’d rather you were as lazy as a dormouse, staying in bed all day if you like, than to be so affected and lackadaisical.”
No answer to this tirade was vouchsafed, and just then Harriet knocked at the door.
“All right,” called Chrissie, “I’m ready—readier than Miss Leila, Harriet,—she hasn’t fastened her belt yet, and nowadays it’s got to be first come, first served, so here’s my comb—hurry up.”
Harriet was young and countrified, and, to tell the truth, rather in awe of “the young ladies,” whom hitherto she had only heard of in her aunt’s letters as beings not far removed from little princesses. So she gave a half-nervous laugh, and set to work at Christabel’s thick curls, Leila—her belt fastened by this time—standing by with a solemn, resigned expression of face.
As a rule it was no easy task to “do” Miss Chrissie’s hair, the owner of it being given to amusing little excursions about the room during the process, dragging her unfortunate attendant after her, in spite of all remonstrances. But this morning, out of sheer contradiction I fear, she stood like a lamb, and as soon as the ribbons were tied, dashed off, shouting, “Who’s first—who’s first? Who’ll be first downstairs after all?”