"Of what?" Becky asked.
"Of pretty clothes—and dances—and dinners. I just knew that he—loved me, and that he had to leave me. But I don't suppose I could make the world believe it."
"Truxton believes it, doesn't he, Mary?"
"Yes."
"And I believe it. And what do you care for the others? It is what we know of ourselves, Mary," she drew a quick breath. "It is what we know of ourselves——"
Becky was wearing the simple frock of pale blue in which George had seen her on that first night when he came to Huntersfield.
"Aren't you going to change?" Mary asked.
"No. It is too much trouble." Becky was in front of the mirror. Her pearls caught the light of the candles. Her bronze hair was a shining wave across her forehead. "It is too much trouble," she said, again, and turned from the mirror.
She had a dozen frocks that had come in the rosy hamper—frocks that would have made the boarders open their eyes. Frocks that would have made Dalton open his. But Becky had the feeling that this was not the moment for lovely clothes. She
felt that she would be cheapened if she decked herself for George.