"Of course you've got to do it--I want to look perfectly lovely!"

"Well--I dunno's my hand's in nowadays," said Mrs. Heeny in a tone that
belied the doubt she cast on her own ability.

"Oh, you're an ARTIST, Mrs. Heeny--and I just couldn't have had that
French maid 'round to-night," sighed Mrs. Spragg, sinking into a chair
near the dressing-table.

Undine, with a backward toss of her head, scattered her loose locks
about her. As they spread and sparkled under Mrs. Heeny's touch, Mrs.
Spragg leaned back, drinking in through half-closed lids her daughter's
loveliness. Some new quality seemed added to Undine's beauty: it had a
milder bloom, a kind of melting grace, which might have been lent to it
by the moisture in her mother's eyes.

"So you're to see the old gentleman for the first time at this dinner?"
Mrs. Heeny pursued, sweeping the live strands up into a loosely woven
crown.

"Yes. I'm frightened to death!" Undine, laughing confidently, took up a
hand-glass and scrutinized the small brown mole above the curve of her
upper lip.

"I guess she'll know how to talk to him," Mrs. Spragg averred with a
kind of quavering triumph.

"She'll know how to LOOK at him, anyhow," said Mrs. Heeny; and Undine
smiled at her own image.