They 're like marble . Mine are so scrawny I 'm just ashamed to have people know they belong to me . '' Margaret 's nimble fingers were keeping time with her tongue . Aunt Beatrice 's hair went up as if by magic into soft puffs and waves and twists , and a golden rose was dropped among the bronze masses . Then the lovely dress was put on and pinned and looped and pulled until it fell into its simple , classical lines around the tall , curving figure . Margaret stepped back and clapped her hands admiringly . `` Oh , Auntie , you 're beautiful ! Now I 'll pop down for the cloak and fascinator . I left them hanging by the fire . '' When Margaret had gone Aunt Beatrice caught up the lamp and tiptoed shamefacedly across the hall to the icy-cold spare room . In the long mirror she saw herself reflected from top to toe -- or was it herself ! Could it be -- that gracious woman with the sweet eyes and flushed cheeks , with rounded arms gleaming through their black laces and the cluster of roses nestling against the warm white flesh of the shoulder ? `` I do look nice , '' she said aloud , with a little curtsey to the radiant reflection . `` It is all the dress , I know . I feel like a queen in it -- no , like a girl again -- and that 's better . '' Margaret went to Mrs. Cunningham 's door with her . `` How I wish I could go in and see the sensation you 'll make , Aunt Beatrice , '' she whispered . `` You dear , silly child ! It 's just the purple and fine linen , '' laughed Aunt Beatrice . But she did not altogether think so , and she rang the doorbell unquailingly .
In the hall Mrs. XXXXX herself came beamingly to greet her .
Beatrice Cunningham Margaret curtsey fascinator fingers fire left mirror twists