"Ah! good morning. Early!" was her short greeting to Celia, who bent down and kissed her. "Now, my dear," pursued Lady Ingram, "please to sit down on that chair facing me. I have two or three remarks to make. You shall have your first lesson in the polishing you need so much." Celia took the seat indicated with some trepidation, but more curiosity. "Very well," said her step-mother. "Now, first, about blushing. You _must_ get rid of that habit of blushing. There--you are at it now. Look in the mirror, and see if it does not spoil your complexion. A woman of the world, Celia, never blushes. It is quite old-fashioned and obsolete. So much for that." "But, Madam,"--Celia began, and hesitated. "Go on, my dear," said Lady Ingram. "You are not putting enough powder on the left side, Thérèse." "If you please, Madam, I cannot stop blushing," pleaded Celia, doing it very much. "It depends upon my feelings." "Well, it looks as if you could not," answered Lady Ingram, with a short, hard laugh. "But, my dear, you _must_. And as to feelings, Celia, a modish woman never has any feelings. Feeling is the one thing absolutely forbidden by the mode. Laugh as much as you please, but mind how you feel merry; and as to crying, that is not allowable except in particular circumstances. It looks well to see a girl weep for the death of her father or mother, and, within reasonable limits, for a brother or sister. But if you are ever left a widow, you must be very careful not to weep for the loss of your husband: that would stamp you instantly. And it is not _bien séant_ for a mother to cry much over her children--certainly not unless they are quite babies. A few tears--just a few--may be very well in that case, if you have a laced handkerchief at hand. But you must never look astonished, no matter what happens to you. And, Celia, last night, when the Consul spoke to you, you absolutely looked perplexed." "I felt so, Madam," said Celia. "Is not that just what I am telling you?" replied Lady Ingram, with that graceful wave of her hands which Celia had seen before. "My dear, you must not feel. Feeling is the one thing which the mode cannot permit." "Pardon me, Madam," answered Celia, looking perplexed now; "but it seems to me that you are trying to make me into a statue." "Exactly so, my dear Celia--that is just it. A modish woman is a piece of live marble: she eats, she drinks, elegantly and in small quantities--she sleeps, taking care not to lie ungracefully--she walks, glidingly and smoothly--she converses, but must be careful not to mean too much--she distributes her smiles at pleasure, but never shows real interest in any person. My dear, a heart is absolute ruin to a modish woman! She may do anything she likes but feel. Now look at me. Have you seen any exhibition of feeling in me since you have known me?" Celia felt herself quite safe in acquitting Lady Ingram on that count.