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PREPARING FOR THE YOUNG D?BUTANTES.
Eileen, Marjorie, and Letitia Chetwynd were expected home from school. It was a bright day early in April, and Mrs. Chetwynd was seated in her luxurious London drawing-room conversing with her special friend, Mrs. Acheson.
Two years ago Mrs. Chetwynd, on the death of her husband, a distinguished Indian officer, had returned to England. She was a fashionable, up-to-date-looking lady now. Her widow's dress was carefully chosen--not too depressing, but all that was correct and proper.
Mrs. Acheson, also the widow of an Indian officer, was not fashionable in the ordinary acceptance of the word. She was plainly, even shabbily, dressed. She wore long weepers to her widow's cap, and her hair was brushed smoothly away from her broad forehead. Her face was large and somewhat sunburnt, her hands well shaped, but with a look about them which showed that they were not unacquainted with manual labor.
"Yes," said Mrs. Chetwynd, uttering a sigh as she spoke, "this is a great day for me. The girls are educated, and are coming home."
"For good?" said Mrs. Acheson.
"Well, yes, my dear; I suppose so. You see, they are all eighteen. It is absurd to keep girls at school after eighteen. They were eighteen the end of last year. In these days, when people grow old so terribly fast, girls ought to have their so-called education finished at eighteen."
"My dear Belle would not agree with you," said Mrs. Acheson.
Mrs. Chetwynd threw up her hands and slightly raised her arched brows.
"Spare me, dear Emily," she cried. "I do not want to hear any of your dear, extraordinary, clever Belle's theories at present. I sincerely trust--yes, my dear, I must be frank--I sincerely trust the wave of her influence will never come into my house."
Mrs. Acheson sighed and sank back in her chair.
"On the whole," she said, "I have much to be thankful for. I have enough to live on, and the memory of my dear husband's brilliant career will always be a comfort to me. Belle is also in excellent health. She is, of course, one of the great admirations of my life; but I will admit it, dear, in a whisper, that she is also one of my trials. But, dear Helen, I had forgotten that you had three daughters; and how can they be all eighteen at the same time?"
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