Domestic fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Psychological fiction; Women -- England -- Fiction
Poor Mrs. Winstanley was horrified when she saw her husband's kinswoman
attired for the ceremony, not a whit less wiggy and snuffy than usual,
and with three lean ostrich feathers starting erect from her back hair,
like the ladies in the proscenium boxes of Skelt's Theatre, whose gaily
painted effigies were so dear to our childhood.
Poor Pamela felt inclined to shed tears. Even her confidence in the
perfection of her own toilet could hardly sustain her against the
horror of being presented by such a scarecrow.
The ceremony went off satisfactorily, in spite of Lady Susan's
antiquated garments. Nobody laughed. Perhaps the _habitues_ of St.
James's were accustomed to scarecrows. Violet's fresh young beauty
attracted some little notice as she waited among the crowd of
_debutantes;_ but, on its being ascertained that she was nobody in
particular, curiosity languished and died.
Mrs. Winstanley wanted to exhibit her court-dress at the opera that
evening, but her husband protested against this display as bad style.
Vixen was only too glad to throw off her finery, the tulle puffings and
festoonings, and floral wreaths and bouquets, which made movement
difficult and sitting down almost impossible.
Those six weeks in town were chiefly devoted to gaiety. Mrs.
Winstanley's Hampshire friends called on her, and followed up their
calls by invitations to dinner, and at the dinners she generally met
people who were on the eve of giving a garden-party, or a concert, or a
dance, and who begged to be allowed to send her a card for that
entertainment, spoken of modestly as a thing of no account. And then
there was a hurried interchange of calls, and Violet found herself
meandering about an unknown croquet-lawn, amongst unknown nobodies,
under a burning sun, looking at other girls, dressed like herself in
dresses a la Theodore, with the last thing in sleeves, and the last cut
in trains, all pretending to be amused by the vapid and languid
observations of the cavalier told off to them, paired like companions
of the chain at Toulon, and almost as joyous.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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