When I came to breakfast next morning, I suffered a shock of surprise very near horror: Angel's hair no longer hung down her back in the thick plait. It was done up, arranged about her head in the fashion of the hour.
I sank into my chair in a dismay I could not hide, crying "Good heavens! Have you been playing at that famous beanstalk? Have you grown up in the night?"
Angel blushed and frowned and sighed: "I—I—I am grown up," she stammered. "I shall be seventeen next month."
"But why—why didn't you give me some warning? Why didn't you do it a little at a time? It is too much to change from girlhood to womanhood in a night!"
"Yes: I do look like a woman—a grown woman—don't I?" she said; and her eyes were shining with pleasure.
"As if it were a matter for pride!" I said. "But there—it's my fault, I ought to have told you I didn't approve of grown women."
"I've only seen you with one—Miss Delamere yesterday—and you approved of her—quite," she said sedately.
"A mere concession to the demands of hospitality."
"Oh, no," said Angel with assurance.
"Besides, I'm used to her."
