“Is this the dress?” she asked, opening the parcel; but her fingers would tremble a little, in spite of her will. And then, as the rich folds of the black brocade came into view, she asked, in a business-like tone, in what style Mrs. Cheyne would wish it made, and how soon she required it. To all of which Mrs. Cheyne responded in the same dry, curt manner; and then the usual process of fitting began.
Never had her task seemed so tedious and distasteful to Phillis. Even Mrs. Trimmings was preferable to this: she hardly ventured to raise her eyes, for fear of meeting Mrs. Cheyne’s cold, satirical glance; and yet all the time she knew she was being watched. Mrs. Cheyne’s vigilant silence meant something.
If only her mother would come in! but she was shelling peas for Dorothy. To think Nan should have failed her on such an occasion! even Dulce would have been a comfort, though she was so easily frightened. She started almost nervously when Mrs. Cheyne at last broke the silence:
“Yes, you are decidedly paler,—a little thinner, I think, and that after only a fortnight’s work.”
Phillis looked up a little indignantly at this; but she found Mrs. Cheyne was regarding her not unkindly.
“I am well enough,” she returned, rather ungraciously; “but we are not used to so much confinement and the weather is hot. We shall grow accustomed to it in time.”
“You think restlessness is so easily subdued?” with a sneer.
“No; but I believe it can be controlled,” replied poor Phillis, who suffered more than any one guessed from this restraint on her sweet freedom.
Mrs. Cheyne was right: even in this short time she was certainly paler and thinner.
“You mean to persevere, then, in your moral suicide?”