Part 29 (1/2)

Ermengarde did not care to mention then that the dress was a cast-off garment of her Aunt Elizabeth's.

The two girls went downstairs hand in hand. Ermie's long dress and train made her feel awkward. She began to be more and more sure that her evening attire, notwithstanding its great beauty, was unsuitable.

She hoped no one would specially notice her. She felt uncomfortable as she saw several pairs of eyes fixed upon her, as she and Lilias walked across the drawing-room.

The two girls got behind the shelter of a curtain, and Ermengarde rejoiced in the fact that her father had not yet come downstairs.

A few more minutes went by; the guests arrived in twos and threes--then dinner was announced. As Lilias had foretold, she and Ermengarde were to take each other in to dinner. They were the last to enter the dining-room. Lady Russell had arranged that the two little girls were to sit together, but at the very last moment some change was made, and Ermie to her horror found herself between her father and a stout old gentleman, who was inclined to regard her as an overdressed, but pretty little doll.

Mr. Wilton never fussed about dress, but he had a keen eye for the proprieties. He saw at a glance that Lilias looked exactly as she ought, and that Ermengarde did not, but he could not tell where the difference lay. Ermie as a rule was one of the neatest of little maids. To-night she was not untidy, and yet--he could not tell why--she looked all wrong.

Mr. Wilton sighed, thought of his dead wife, wondered how he could ever manage his fast growing-up family, and then slightly turning his back on Ermie, tried to forget his cares in conversation with his neighbor on his other side.

The fat old gentleman began to talk to Ermengarde.

”Home for the holidays, eh, my dear?” he began, half-winking at her.

”I don't go to school,” answered Ermengarde. She flushed angrily, and her reply was in her primmest voice.

The fat old gentleman finished his soup calmly. Ermie's prim indignation amused him. He glanced from her childish face to her grown up head, and then said in a semi-confiding whisper: ”Tell me, do you consider a cla.s.sical education essential to the development of women's brains?”

”Oh, I don't know,” stammered poor Ermie.

”Then you're not a Girton girl?”

”No; why do you ask?” answered Ermengarde. She began to feel a little flattered. The old gentleman must certainly consider her quite grown-up.

”Well,” he replied, with another comical twinkle in his eyes, ”I thought you seemed so intelligent, and although you have a young face, you have somehow or other an old way about you. You'll forgive my speaking frankly, my dear, but I notice that most old-young girls attend some of the colleges.”

Ermengarde felt delighted. She changed her mind about the fat old gentleman, and began to regard him as a most agreeable person. He considered her face remarkable for intelligence, and although she was quite grown up, she looked sweetly youthful. She leant back in her chair, and toyed with her food.

”I'm not very old,” she began.

”Not more than eighteen, I should think,” replied the old gentleman.

Ermengarde gave vent to a silvery laugh.

”Eh? You're not more than that, are you?” asked her companion.

”No, sir,” she answered. ”I am not more than eighteen.”

Although he was talking very earnestly to his neighbor, Mr. Wilton heard his daughter's laugh. It sounded to him a little forced and strained. His undefined sensation of discomfort increased. He turned and looked at Ermengarde. There certainly was something quite unusual about her. Now he raised his eyes to her hair.

”Ermie!” he exclaimed, ”what _have_ you done to your head? My dear child, what a show you have made of yourself!”

His voice was quite clear enough for the old gentleman to hear him.

Ermengarde blushed painfully. She muttered something inaudible, and looked down.