“I should say that she’s sure to bring something impossible in any case. I would rather be excused from trusting her to get anything of the least importance for me. I admire your courage.”
“She had better not make any mess about those nets of mine,” cried Doris; “or things will become exhilarating. Norah, if you tell them at Morrel’s that they’re for me there will be no mess. I suppose you have some sense.”
“Doris, what an inexhaustible fund of confidence you have in Norah. It may be sisterly; but is it wise?”
Just as I was going to snap off Eveleen’s nose, of course mamma must interfere:
“Now, Norah, not another word. Do as I tell you. Go upstairs, and endeavour to make yourself look more like a daughter of mine should do, and then go and fetch those things—and mind there are no mistakes.”
I went upstairs. As I went I heard Eveleen laugh. I knew she was laughing at me. She may have a musical laugh—I have been told hundreds of times she has, so I suppose she must have—but it did not sound musical to me just then. It put all my nerves on edge.
CHAPTER III.
THE UNFINISHED SENTENCE
Was it strange that I was in a pretty state of mind? Was it to be wondered at that I hardly knew if I was standing on my head or heels?
When I got into my room I slammed the door, and turned the key. I tore my hat off and threw it on to the bed. I could have cried; but I make it a rule never to cry—or hardly ever. Besides, I was only too well aware that if I once started I never should leave off; and then I should have jumped from the frying-pan into the fire, with a vengeance. They would tear me to pieces if I did not make haste and get the rubbish they wanted.
I went to the looking-glass. There was no mistake about it, I did look hideous. There was some excuse for some of the things they said. It has always been a conviction of mine that if they would let me dress as I pleased I might look presentable. But they won’t let me. They all dress like fashion-plates, and nothing could suit them better; and they make me dress like the fashion-plates, and nothing could suit me less. I believe they are afraid of me getting out of the picture; or, rather, of my being a sort of picture all by myself, and so diverting attention from them. As it is I am a kind of raree show. So whenever they take me out with them—which is very seldom; for, in any case, five sisters are a frightful crowd—I am either a perpetual wallflower, or an ideal gooseberry, neither of which rôles I care for in the very least.