"I wish I'd gone in to see her. I'm in just the right
humor."
The door opened and Margaret whisked round to blast the intruder
who had dared adventure her privacy without knocking. There stood
her grandmother--ebon staff in gloved hand--erect, spare body in
rustling silk--gray-white hair massed before a sort of turban--
steel-blue eyes flashing, delicate nostrils dilating with the
breath of battle.
"Ah--Margaret!" said she, and her sharp, quarrel-seeking voice
tortured the girl's nerves like the point of a lancet. "They tell
me you have a headache." She lifted her lorgnon and scrutinized
the pale, angry face of her granddaughter. "I see they were
telling me the truth. You are haggard and drawn and distressingly
yellow."
The old lady dropped her lorgnon, seated herself. She held her
staff out at an angle, as if she were Majesty enthroned to pass
judgment of life and death. "You took too much champagne at those
vulgar Burkes last night," she proceeded. "It's a vicious thing
for a girl to do--vicious in every way. It gives her a reputation,
for moral laxity which an unmarried woman can ill-afford to have--
unless she has the wealth that makes men indifferent to character.
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