“Kitty,” she cried, “I cannot rest for thinking of your first ball, and I have brought you Mrs. Bergamot to advise. My dear, you must be well dressed.” Then she whispered: “Do you want money, dear? I have some.”
I told her I had as much as a hundred and twenty guineas, at which she screamed with delight.
“Kitty!” she cried again, clasping my hands. “A hundred guineas! a hundred guineas! and twenty more! My dear, that odd twenty, that poor overflowing of thy rich measure, is the utmost I could get for this season at the Wells. Oh! happy, happy girl, to have such a face, such a shape, such eyes, such hair, such hands and feet, and a hundred and twenty guineas to set all off!”
She sat down, clasped her hands, and raised her eyes to Heaven as if in thankfulness. I think I see her now, the little dainty merry maid, so arch, so apt, sitting before me with a look which might be of envy or of joy. She had eyes so bright, a mouth so little, dimples so cunning, a cheek so rosy and a chin so rounded, that one could not choose but love her.
“Miss Pleydell,” she said to the milliner, “has not brought all her things from London. You must get what she wants at once, for Monday’s ball. Now, let us see.”
Then we held a parliament of four, counting Cicely, over the great question of my frocks. Nancy was prime minister, and did all the talking, turning over the things.
“Let me see, Mrs. Bergamot. Fetch us, if you have them—what you have—in flowered brocades—all colours—violet, pink, Italian posies, rose, myrtle, jessamine, anything; a watered tabby would become you, Kitty; any painted lawns,—silks and satins would be almost too old for you: do not forget the patches à la grecque—Kitty, be very careful of the patches; gauzes, what you have, Mrs. Bergamot; we want more hoods, a feathered muff, stomacher, Paris nets, eau de Chypre or eau de luce, whichever you have; ear-rings are no use to you, my poor child. Pity that they did not pierce your ears: see the little drops dangling at mine. At any rate, thank Heaven that we neither of us want vermilion for the cheeks. Poor Peggy! she paints these two years and more. Ruffs, Mrs. Bergamot, and tippets, cardinals, any pretty thing in sarsnets, and what you have in purple. Kitty, purple is your colour. You shall have a dress all purple for the next ball. Ah! if I could carry purple! But you, Kitty, with your height and figure—stand up, child—why, she will be Juno herself!”
“Truly,” said the dressmaker, “as for Miss Pleydell, purple has come into fashion in pudding-time, as folk say.”
“A pretty woman,” Nancy went on, examining me as if I had been a dummy, “not a pretty ‘little thing’ like me, is as rare in Epsom as a black swan or a white blackbird, or green yellow-hammer, or a red blue tit.”
When the dressmaker was gone, and we were left alone, Nancy began again, out of her great experience, to talk of the place we were in.