Her hair--how should she arrange it on the night of conquest? There was searching of fashion magazines for something distinguished yet chaste. Many startling novelties, with much expenditure of time and hairpins, were attempted, with signal unsuccess; and it was only after every florid device had been exhausted, that she had at last to confess that a severe simplicity accorded best with her other charms; or to speak plainly was the only hairdressing she could succeed in.
These labours led to a more critical scrutiny of her complexion than she had ever made before. Hitherto she had accepted it like her other perfections in contented faith; but now, on closer observation, was there not just a suspicion of yellowness under the eyes--tan marks on the neck--a freckle or two across the ridge of the nose? Violet powder! that was what she needed, and forthwith she repaired to an apothecary, who, I fear, supplied her with other embellishments at the same time. It is certain, at least, that on the looked-for evening, when, after keeping her aunt long waiting, she at length came downstairs arrayed in all her glory, with shawl and hood carried in her hand, that the assembled family might have the privilege of a private view, before she set out on her career of conquest, Mr. and Mrs. Selby being in the hall and a maidservant near to open the door and catch a glimpse of the show, she appeared in one of those startling complexions which are affected by equestrian ladies of the circus, in which not the lily and the rose combine, but the chalk-ball and rouge contrast their rawness.
Mrs. Selby's mild and weary eyes opened in amused amazement, and her spouse coughed industriously behind his hand to stifle his laughter. Mrs. Bunce lifted her "pinch-nose" to her eyes in dismay and indignation.
"What is it? Who is it?" she asked, while Betsey simpered and tossed her head. "That I should live to see a clergyman's niece make a----"
"Guy of herself with violet powder and druggist's red," volunteered Mr. Selby. "It's a mistake, my dear Betsey, I assure you, attempting to improve Nature's choicest effort, the cheek of a pretty girl. It's like painting the lily--gilding refined gold."
Betsey turned wrathfully round, flushing scarlet here and there where the powder lay less thickly. "But perhaps he meant well, too," she thought. His concluding words implied a gratifying appreciation of her everyday looks; so she let it pass, and the angry red subsided from her forehead.
"Fie, Betsey!" continued the aunt. "There is scripture against such sinful interference with the natural complexion. Think of the wicked Hebrew queen."
"Who painted her face and was thrown out of the window," added Selby, with some irreverence. Poor man, he was apt to grow jocose.
"But, auntie, the fashion magazine says brilliant complexions are all the go, especially with simple coiffures; and I am sure mine is simple enough--nothing but a bang, an Irish wisp, and--well, only three or four pads. In Europe, it is said, they use rouge and pearl-white quite freely. I have only put on a little powder."
"A little, my dear?" muttered Selby, half aside, "you look as if you had come out of a flour barrel--with the white flakes sticking all over you. It ought to be a fancy ball you were going to, and you to represent a snowstorm. The dust is flying from you every time you turn your head."