It was also evident to Mrs. Fenchurch, that of late this interloper had developed in many ways, and was inclined to enter into conversation, and even to offer opinions! This sort of thing must be nipped without delay. Once she began to take an inch, it would soon become an ell--the inch, would be the selection of her ball-gown. It was too ridiculous that a girl of seventeen who had never been to a dance in her life, should dare to set up her taste in opposition to her own. With a stern resolve implanted in her mind, Mrs. Fenchurch sat down and wrote off to London, ordering materials, which included the white brocade, and green satin trimming. In two or three days the order had arrived, and after breakfast, she summoned Letty into her bedroom--a delightful chamber with large bow windows and bright chintzes, facing full south, and overlooking the lawns. “You want to see me, aunt?” she asked as she entered (inwardly quaking) and awaited instructions. In the long glass which faced them from floor to ceiling, Mrs. Fenchurch beheld the full-length reflections of her niece and herself; she, in a rough tweed gown, spare, weather-beaten, long-nosed, elderly; the girl, in a cheap blue serge, slim, erect, beautiful as the morning--and with all her best days to come! A sharp spasm of anger and jealousy darted through her mind. Alas! alas! Her own best days had gone by. She, Dorothy Fenchurch, was entering on the season of the sere and yellow leaf--and was conscious of an agonising self-pity. “Oh yes, it’s about your ball dress. Here,” tearing open her parcel, “are the materials--they came to-day.” It was undeniably a heavy and matronly brocade that she unfolded, and as for the green satin ribbon, whatever it might look at night, it was hideous by day! “Oh!” exclaimed the girl, “so you got the brocade after all--and I have sent for the white _crêpe_.” “You have sent for the white _crêpe_--without consulting _me_!” repeated Mrs. Fenchurch, speaking as it were in capital letters. “Well, you see uncle gave me the money to spend as I pleased. The _crêpe_ has come too, and is really lovely. May I show it to you?” “No, I don’t want to see it! I am amazed at your daring to do such a thing as order a dress without my permission. One thing I can promise you, and that is, that it won’t be made up! You go to the ball--if you go at all--in a gown of my selection.” “Then, I think,” and the girl became very red, “that I will stay at home. Yes--I should look too ridiculous.” “You will look exactly as _I_ choose!” declared Mrs. Fenchurch, suddenly losing her self-control; the smouldering resentment which had been gathering for weeks now bursting into flames; a strange, wild fury, all the long-pent-up grievances, annoyances, jealousies, finding outlet at last. It must be confessed that just at the moment, she was suffering torture from neuralgia in her face--the result of long rides in piercing cold, or damp evenings, when the day’s sport was over.