“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it, and you’d be a regular little beauty, with a touch here and there. I shan’t let anyone see you till you are done, and then we’ll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother, going to the ball,” said Belle, in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be “a little beauty” after touching up, caused her to accept, and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings towards the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid; and, between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve, to make them redder, and Hortense would have added “a soupçon of rouge,” if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on, with a bit of pink silk, which did not show. A cluster of tea-rosebuds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled blue silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A laced handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a silver holder finished her off; and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
“Mademoiselle is charmante, très jolie , is she not?” cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her “fun”