The “darling Mrs. C.” yielded at first; but finding that applications increased as they were complied with, she was soon obliged, like all Miss Fanshawe’s friends, to oppose resistance to encroachment. After a while I heard no more of Mrs. Cholmondeley’s presents; but still, visiting went on, and the absolutely necessary dresses continued to be supplied: also many little expensive _etcetera_—gloves, bouquets, even trinkets. These things, contrary to her custom, and even nature—for she was not secretive—were most sedulously kept out of sight for a time; but one evening, when she was going to a large party for which particular care and elegance of costume were demanded, she could not resist coming to my chamber to show herself in all her splendour. Beautiful she looked: so young, so fresh, and with a delicacy of skin and flexibility of shape altogether English, and not found in the list of continental female charms. Her dress was new, costly, and perfect. I saw at a glance that it lacked none of those finishing details which cost so much, and give to the general effect such an air of tasteful completeness. I viewed her from top to toe. She turned airily round that I might survey her on all sides. Conscious of her charms, she was in her best humour: her rather small blue eyes sparkled gleefully. She was going to bestow on me a kiss, in her school-girl fashion of showing her delights but I said, “Steady! Let us be Steady, and know what we are about, and find out the meaning of our magnificence”—and so put her off at arm’s length, to undergo cooler inspection. “Shall I do?” was her question. “Do?” said I. “There are different ways of doing; and, by my word, I don’t understand yours.” “But how do I look?” “You look well dressed.” She thought the praise not warm enough, and proceeded to direct attention to the various decorative points of her attire. “Look at this _parure_,” said she. “The brooch, the ear-rings, the bracelets: no one in the school has such a set—not Madame herself.” “I see them all.” (Pause.) “Did M. de Bassompierre give you those jewels?” “My uncle knows nothing about them.” “Were they presents from Mrs. Cholmondeley?” “Not they, indeed. Mrs. Cholmondeley is a mean, stingy creature; she never gives me anything now.” I did not choose to ask any further questions, but turned abruptly away. “Now, old Crusty—old Diogenes” (these were her familiar terms for me when we disagreed), “what is the matter now?” “Take yourself away. I have no pleasure in looking at you or your _parure_.” For an instant, she seemed taken by surprise. “What now, Mother Wisdom? I have not got into debt for it—that is, not for the jewels, nor the gloves, nor the bouquet. My dress is certainly not paid for, but uncle de Bassompierre will pay it in the bill: he never notices items, but just looks at the total; and he is so rich, one need not care about a few guineas more or less.”