She selects one of her loveliest dresses--a silvery white brocade, trimmed with a broidery and fringe of gleaming pearls. No jewels mar the rounded whiteness of her perfect arms and stately throat. The waving, golden hair is piled high upon her graceful head, with no ornament save a cluster of velvety white pansies. "They say that my enemies' jewels are almost barbaric in their splendor. I will show them that I am lovely enough to leave my jewels at home," she tells herself, with some little girlish triumph. CHAPTER XX. 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."