This is a sort of desecration that goes to a woman’s heart—to bring down her newest fashion to the common level—to copy in poor materials the very finest and newest cuts! “I could not away with it!” said Mrs. Hunstanton, and she meant what she said.
Diana laughed, which was quite exasperating in the circumstances. “They like it,” she said, “and it does me no harm. I am very glad to see Sophy looking so well——”
“My dear Diana, Sophy never looked the least ill, except in your anxious eyes. Well, I don’t intend to say anything more about it; you chose to do it, and that is enough. Tom is as ridiculous as you are. He insists that I should take them everywhere, and introduce them to all the people we know. I allow that they are very good to Reginald—oh, very good. They actually make his life happier, and of course I am grateful. It is not that I dislike them or grudge anything I can do; but you, Diana, you! to waste so much affection upon two little selfish——”
“Unselfish, you mean.”
“It comes to the same thing,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, in her fervour. “Oh yes, they are always giving in, thinking what you will like, and deferring to each other; and the result is that they have everything they wish, which, rich as you are and clever as you are, Diana, is more than could be said for you——”
“I have a great many things I like,” said Diana, quietly; “no one has more; and I have my own way—you don’t consider the blessedness of that. Above all things in the world, one likes one’s own way.”
“You have your own way by letting every one have theirs,” said her friend. “What is Sophy about? Are you going to copy all Diana’s things, one after the other? But you must allow for the difference of style: Diana’s things will never suit you.”
“Indeed Sophy is a great deal more sensible than to think she could be like Diana,” said Mrs. Norton, with dignity; “there is a great difference of style; and different people like different things,” she added, oracularly, “some one, some another.” Mrs. Norton felt herself able to show fight with the backing up of Diana behind her, and even, with that moral support, felt strong enough slightly to under-value Diana: a whimsical way, yet a very genuine one, of proving unbounded faith in her. For the moment indeed she had an easy victory, for Mrs. Hunstanton was struck dumb by the audacious idea that Sophy’s “style” should be identified in opposition to Diana’s, and was silent against her will, finding no words at her command to say. And the others gathered up their presents, while the little scratch of Diana’s pen was the only sound clearly audible. Sophy turned over her gloves half regretfully, half pleased. They were beautiful gloves—some of them twelve-buttons! which was wonderful—much better than she ever would have herself bought; but then the Tuscan gloves did very well, and if it had only occurred to Diana to bring her something more useful! “But how good of Diana to think of you at all!” Mrs. Norton was whispering in her ear.
“I don’t hear you talking,” said Diana, “if it’s out of consideration for me, never mind. You don’t disturb me, and my letters are almost done.”
“You must go over all the sights,” said Mrs. Hunstanton; “my husband will give us no peace till you have seen everything. How pleased he will be to have a new person to take about! He will not spare you a single picture or a single chapel. He likes to do things thoroughly.”