Fancy papa letting himself be dragged by mama to a soirée musicale! The whole world will seem topsy-turvy. There are only three places which he finds bearable in the evening—the club, the opera during the ballet, and the little theatres where people go to laugh and amuse themselves generally—the theatres where young girls are not allowed to go, but where I intend to go when I am married.
Yes, I'm sure there's an interview in the wind. It must be something of great importance, for mama has been in a state of the highest excitement ever since this morning. She ate no breakfast, and didn't manage to conceal her unrest at all. Not only has she inspected my blue dress carefully, but she has also examined me with equal thoroughness. She fell into a fit of veritable despair on verifying the fact that there was a slight flaw on my features.
"What's that?" she cried.
"Where? What? mama!"
"On the tip of your nose."
"Have I anything on the tip of my nose?"
"Yes, a horrid gash."
"Oh, good gracious! A gash?"
Quite horrified, I rushed to the mirror. Then I breathed freely again. It was the merest trifle—where the kitten had given me a pat with its paw. Nothing worth mentioning—a little reddish mark that was hardly visible to the naked eye, and which could easily be got rid of before evening.
But in mama's solicitous eyes the little mark assumed the proportions of a disfiguring wound. The tip of my nose has never received so much touching attention before. Mama made me sit still in an armchair during half of the day, with cold-water cloths fixed like a pair of goggles on the said tip of the aforementioned nose.