But the mother--the true mother--had thereafter loved the disfigured
thing but the more. She promptly divested it of all its splendid
garments, as a precaution against further vandalism, and the naked thing
with its scarred face was ever an honored guest at our functions.
"You really must get some clothes for Irene," I said. "That's not quite
the right thing, you know, having her sit there without any."
In much annoyance she rebuked me, whispering, for this thoughtless lapse
from my role as guest. At our parties Irene was no longer Irene, but
"Mrs. Judge Robinson," and justly sensitive about her faulty complexion
and lack of clothes.
"Besides," came the whisper again, "I am going to make her some
clothes--a lovely veil to go over her face."
Resuming her company voice, and with the aplomb of a perfect hostess who
has rectified the gaucherie of an awkward guest, she pressed upon me
another cup of the custard coffee, and tactfully inquired of the
supposedly embarrassed Mrs. Judge Robinson if she did not think this was
_very_ warm weather for this time of year.
The proprieties being thus mended, our hostess raised her voice and bade
Mrs. Sullivan, within doors, to hurry with the next course, which, I was
charmed to learn, would be lemon soup and frosted cake.
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