"Oh! he always does what I tell him," she replies, with a superior smile.
She has a quantity of jingling golden ornaments hanging from a chatelaine at her waist, a gold crown on the handle of her lorgnette, and so many rings on her long pink fingers that they bulge over her knuckles. Her nails are manicured to appear almost crimson, her teeth are shining white under her curved lips, that look capable of bitter sayings and smiles of scorn.
"The fire is too hot," she says, laying one soft hand against a still softer cheek. Her complexion is a marvel. Eleanor hands her a painted screen.
"What a charming picture," continues Lady MacDonald. "I adore nymphs. Did you paint this, Mrs. Roche?"
"Yes," replied Giddy, "Eleanor is a perfect artist."
Eleanor raises her eyebrows, staring at Giddy in amazement, never having touched a brush in her life.
"Do you exhibit?"
Giddy again answers for Eleanor.
"Mr. Roche won't let her, he thinks any publicity infra dig. for a woman."
"Perhaps he is right," says Lady MacDonald; "I know Edward won't allow me to pen a line for the press, though I have quite a genius for scribbling. He is so cross because people get my picture sometimes for the Society papers. I have to hide them away from him. The last one caught his eye hung up on a bookstall, and he was nearly suffocated with wrath on the spot, and could not speak for three minutes."