At Darnley House on the night of Lady Spencer's ball, all the devices
of art and the aid of two well-nigh distracted maids are called in
to beautify Mrs. Leslie Noble for her _debut_ in London fashionable
society. Her small, pale, faded face is rejuvenated by _rouge_ and
powder, the hair-dresser furnishes a tower of straw-gold puffs to crown
her own sparse locks, and add dignity and hight to her low stature. Her
dress is a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of the Parisian man milliner--palest blue
satin, with diaphanous, floating draperies of blue embroidered crape.
A magnificent diamond necklace clasps her small throat. Bracelets of
diamonds shine on her wrists, diamonds blaze in her hair, diamond
clasps hold the azure draperies in place. From head to foot the small
blonde sparkles with splendor, and her weak soul thrills with vanity.
She is determined to create a sensation, and to have the incense of
admiration poured at her shrine.
When she has fretted and worried through the process of dressing, and
slapped the face of one maid, and scolded the other one into floods of
tears, she sends for her mother to come into the dressing-room.
There is a little delay, and then Mrs. Cleveland sails in, gorgeous
in crimson brocade and rubies, her black eyes shining with triumphant
satisfaction at her own really fine appearance. But Ivy, absorbed in
her own self, has no admiration to spare for her mother.
"I sent for you, mamma, to ask you how I look," she says. "These stupid
women have worried me into a fever. They can do nothing right. Tell me,
do you think any of these proud, titled dames will outshine me in the
ball-room to-night?"
Mrs. Cleveland's glance roves critically over the resplendent figure.
All the appliances of wealth and art cannot hide the fretful,
ill-natured look on the small, thin face, nor the shrewish light in the
pale-blue eyes.
"Your dress is faultless--I do not believe anyone will be more
magnificent than you," she answers; "but try to look more complaisant,
do, Ivy. You have no idea how that fretful look mars the beauty of
your face. Remember you will have some formidable rivals to-night. The
grandest and most beautiful women in London will be at Lady Spencer's
ball."
"I am as pretty as any of them," Mrs. Noble cries, irascibly. "I don't
see why I am to be cautioned against my looks so much. An angel would
lose her temper. There was Leslie to-day, telling me to look for my
laurels, for the beauty of last season would be there, and carry all
before her?"
"The Countess of Fairvale--yes, I have heard that she would be there,"
Mrs. Cleveland answers. "I am quite curious to see her. She is as
lovely as a dream, they say, a dark-eyed blonde with golden hair."
"Leslie saw her portrait at Delany's--the great artist, you know," Mrs.
Noble answers. "Would you believe he had the insolence to tell me she
reminded him of that wretched creature--Vera Campbell?"
"_She_ had dark eyes and fair hair, you remember," Mrs. Cleveland
answers, carelessly.
"Yes, but the idea of comparing her to a great beauty like this Lady
Fairvale--that girl who was no better than a servant!" Mrs. Noble
cries, indignantly.
"Well, well, there is no use to be jealous of the dead. Vera Campbell
was beautiful, certainly, but Leslie never cared for her, you know,"
Mrs. Cleveland answers, impatiently.
"Precious little he cares for me, either," her daughter complains. "He
pretended to love me once, but he has dropped even the pretense long
ago!"
"What does it matter? You are his wife, and spend his money all the
same," Mrs. Cleveland answers, heartlessly. "Come, Ivy, if you mean
to attend the ball to-night, it's time to be off. For Heaven's sake,
smooth those ugly frowns off your face before we reach Lady Spencer's,
or people will think you old and ugly in spite of your diamonds."
Ivy's pale eyes flash with rage at the cool reminder, but she is wise
enough to know that her mother is speaking for her good. She dabs on
a little more pearl powder, takes up her white satin cloak lined with
snowy swan's-down, and with a fond, farewell glance into the mirror,
turns to go.
"You need not fear for me, mamma," she says, summoning a smile to her
painted lips. "I shall be as bright and smiling as the Countess of
Fairvale herself. But I wonder where Leslie can be! He drank so much
wine at dinner that I am afraid he is in no condition to attend us."
A door opens suddenly to her right, and Mr. Noble appears in full
evening dress, his face somewhat flushed, but looking otherwise none
the worse for the wine his wife deplores. He looks ungraciously at his
resplendent wife.
"So you have got on all your war-paint," he sneers. "How ridiculously
over-dressed you are, Ivy. You make one think of a jeweler's
show-window. A pity you could not have bored a hole through your nose,
and hung a diamond there, too."
"A pity you drank enough wine at dinner to make you a drunken boor,"
she retorts angrily.