"But she looks
all right, so deliciously quaint-- I simply adore quaint people! Quite
the sweet girl graduate, I do declare. You don't at all answer to the
role, you naughty Rosalind!"
So Prissie, in her ill-made brown dress, her shabbiest hat and her
muddy boots, had to follow in the wake of Rosalind Merton and her
friend. At first she had been too angry to think much about her
attire, but she was painfully conscious of it when she entered a
crowded drawing-room, where every one else was in a suitable afternoon
toilet. She was glad to shrink away out of sight into the most remote
corner she could find; her muddy boots were pushed far in under her
chair and hidden as much as possible by her rather short dress; her
cheeks burnt unbecomingly; she felt miserable, self-conscious, ill at
ease and very cross with every one. It was in vain for poor Priscilla
to whisper to herself that Greek and Latin were glorious and great and
dress and fashion were things of no moment whatever. At this instant
she knew all too well that dress and fashion were reigning supreme.
Meta Elliot-Smith was elusive, loud and vulgar, but she was also
good-natured. She admired Rosalind, but in her heart of hearts she
thought that her friend had played Prissie a very shabby trick.
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