Part 10 (1/2)
”You mean that I must go to their houses and do what they done--set ten minutes and ask them about the weather and the opera and symphonies? I don't know nothin' about them things at all.”
”You needn't ask them about the opera, but you must return their calls.”
Drusilla shook her head.
”No, I won't do it.”
”Oh, but you must.”
”But I won't, Miss Thornton,” said Drusilla obstinately. ”I don't know what to say.”
”I'll go with you, Miss Doane.”
”Well--” and Drusilla was a little pacified--”well, I'll go once and see what it's like. I'll do anything once, but I won't promise to do it much.”
”Never mind; you must return the first calls. I'll come for you to-morrow and we'll go. You have cards--I had them made for you; and I'll bring my new cardcase. No, I'll get you the dearest bag I saw downtown. Gray suede with a cardcase and mirror in it, and a pencil and everything you need.”
”What do I want a mirror in my hand satchel for?”
”Why to powder your nose if it gets s.h.i.+ny, Miss Doane. You're not up to date. You must have a vanity box in your bag or you won't be in it at all now.”
Drusilla laughed.
”You ain't forgot how vain I was that first day when I peeked in all the mirrors at the hotel. But now I can pa.s.s one without lookin' in, if I ain't got a new dress on.”
”Speaking of dresses, Miss Doane, put on that dark gray velvet that Marcelle made you and the hat with the mauve. Oh, I wish it were cold, so you could wear your new furs. But--well--they'll see them all after a while. We mustn't astonish them _too_ much at first.”
”Do I have to fix up so much?”
”But I want them to see how pretty you are.”
Drusilla blushed like a girl.
”Pshaw, Miss Thornton, don't you know I'm past seventy years old?
You shouldn't say such things.”
”Oh, but I mean it. Margaret Fairchild, who was here with her mother, told the girls the other night at the dance that she couldn't keep her eyes off of you, as you sat with the light on your hair, and your pretty dress that was so half old-fas.h.i.+oned and half the latest style. She said you looked as if you had just stepped out of a picture.”
”It's my clothes, I guess.”
”Yes, it's partly the clothes, and that's where Marcelle is clever.
She makes the clothes suit _you_, and doesn't try to make a fas.h.i.+onable middle-aged woman out of you. She spoke of your hands too, said they looked so--so--sort of feminine as they lay on the arms of the chair. You are clever, Miss Doane, to always sit on one of those high-backed chairs when callers come; it makes a lovely background.”
”Does it? I hadn't thought of that. I generally set in the chair that's nearest the door; and I like one with arms that I can take hold of, 'cause it makes me nervous to have the women stare at me, and sometimes when there is such a long time between talks, I hold on to the arm tight so's I won't show I'm nervous and wonderin' what to say to fill in. But I didn't think any one noticed my hands.” She looked down at them rather sadly. ”They've always worked hard and I guess they show the marks.”
”Oh, your hands are beautiful, Miss Doane. I can't ever believe you have worked with them.”
”Can't you? I never had my hands idle in my lap in all my life till I come here. But--well, they ought to have something happen to 'em the way Jane works with 'em. Whenever I let her she's fussin' with my hands with little sticks and knives, until sometimes I'd like to box her ears. How any one can spend so much time just settin' still and lettin' some one fuss with their hands, I don't see. But I let her do it, as I don't have much else to do here but just set still, and she'd better fool with my hands than spend her time talkin' with William, which she does enough as it is.”
”Oh, is Jeanne flirting?”