Rotha struggled with herself with the feeling of desperate indignation which came over her; struggled, grew red and grew pale, but finally did go without another word; and brought down, pile by pile, her neat under wardrobe. Mrs. Busby packed and packed. Her trunk was leather, and strong, but its capacities were bounded by that very strength.
"All these!" she exclaimed in a sort of despair. "There is no use whatever in having so much linen under wear."
Rotha was silent.
"It is much better to have fewer things, and let them be washed as often as necessary. A family would want a caravan at this rate."
"This is Mrs. Mowbray's way," said Rotha.
"Mrs. Mowbray's way is not a way to be copied, unless you are a millionaire. She is the most extravagant woman I ever met, without exception."
"But aunt Serena, it costs no more in the end, whether you have a dozen things for two years, and comfort, or half a dozen a year, and discomfort."
"You don't know that you will live two years to want them."
"You don't know that you will live one, for that matter," said Antoinette, who always spoke her mind, careless whom the words touched. "At that rate, mamma, we ought to do like savages,—have one dress and wear it out before getting another; but it strikes me that would be rather disagreeable."
"You will not find anybody at Tanfield to do all this washing for you,"
Mrs. Busby went on.