Her sister obediently raised her eyes from the wristband she was hemming, and critically scanned the willowy giantess depicted amongst the Fashion Notes. Then she sighed, and once more bent her dark head over her work. “Well, if that is their notion of economy, I am sure I couldn’t go to London, even if my godmother invited me. And I know she won’t,” she said fatalistically.
“You must and you shall go!” declared Sophy, in accents of strong resolution. “Only think what it may mean to all of us if you do!”
“Yes, but I won’t go looking like a dowd,” objected Arabella, “and if I am obliged to have diamond fastenings to my bodice, you know very well—”
“Oh, stuff! I daresay that is the extreme of fashion, or perhaps they are made of paste! And in any event this is one of the older numbers. I know I saw in one of them that jewelry is no longer worn in the mornings, so very likely—Where is that volume? Margaret, you have it! Do, pray, give it to me! You are by far too young to be interested in such things!”
Margaret uncorked her ears to snatch the book out of her sister’s reach. “No! I’m reading the serial story!”
“Well, you should not. You know Papa does not like us to read romances.”
“If it comes to that,” retorted Margaret, “he would be excessively grieved to find you reading nothing better than the latest modes!”
They looked at one another; Sophy’s lip quivered. “Dear Meg, do pray give it to me, only for a moment!”
“Well, I will when I have finished the Narrative of Augustus Waldstein,” said Margaret. “But only for a moment, mind!”