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I hate myself
for the sense of relief.
This morning came an evening dress for Carlotta which has taken a
month in the making. This, I am given to understand, is
delirious speed for a London dress-maker. To celebrate the
occasion I engaged a box at the Empire for this evening and
invited her to dine with me. I sent a note of invitation round
to Mrs. McMurray.
Carlotta did not come down at half-past seven. We waited. At
last Mrs. McMurray went up to the room and presently returned
shepherding a shy, blushing, awkward, piteous young person who
had evidently been crying. My friend signed to me to take no
notice. I attributed the child's lack of gaiety to the ordeal
of sitting for the first time in her life at a civilised
dinner-table. She scarcely spoke and scarcely ate. I complimented
her on her appearance and she looked beseechingly at me, as if I
were scolding her. After dinner Mrs. McMurray told me the reason
of her distress. She had found Carlotta in tears. Never could she
face me in that low cut evening bodice.


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