Mrs. Dean was a little worried about Cynthia's dress, and was revolving
in her mind whether she might not make her look more like the other
children by lending her for the occasion a white dress of Florrie's,
when, to her regret, she observed that Florrie's eyes were resting very
scornfully on the faded green delaine and the stout coarse shoes.
Now if there is anything vulgar and unpardonable, it is this,
children--that, being a hostess, you are ashamed of anything belonging
to a guest. From the moment a guest enters your door he or she is
sacred, and no true lady or gentlemen ever criticises, much less
apologizes for, the dress of a visitor. Mrs. Dean was sorry to observe
the sneer on Florrie's usually sweet face, and glancing from it to
Cynthia's, she was struck with the contrast.
Never had Cynthia in her life been seated at a table so beautiful. The
tumblers of ruby and amber glass, the plates with their delicate fruit
and flower decoration, every plate a picture, the bouquet in the centre
reflected in a beautiful little round mirror, the pretty silver tubs
filled with broken ice, the shining knives and forks, and the dainty tea
equipage, were so charming that she felt like a princess in an enchanted
castle. But she expressed no surprise. She behaved quietly, made no
mistakes, used her knife and fork like a little lady, and was as
unconscious of herself and her looks as the carnation pink is of its
color and shape.
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