The same morning Vera rustled into her friend's room, with her usual air of vagueness and devotion, and said with a sort of despairing cry—
"Oh, Felicity darling! you're the only person in the world who always has clothes for every occasion, and knows everything. How on earth does one dress for Tussaud's? Should you regard it as a Private View, or treat it more like—say—Princes'?"
"Neither. Why on earth Princes'? Were you thinking of bringing your skates?"
"Don't be absurd. Then I had better not wear my new Paquin?"
"Certainly not. Nothing trailing, or showy. But for Heaven's sake don't dress for skating or bicycling. I fancy there is a notice up to say you can't do either of those things there. And please not too much of your Oriental embroideries."
"Well, my new tailor-made dress then, and a large hat?"
Felicity laughed.
"My dear girl, what does it matter? If you fondly imagine that any one will look at your dress while there are real horrors to see——!"
"Darling little creature!" said Vera, who absolutely idolised Felicity, and looked up to her in the most absurd way, although she was five years younger—often taking her ironical advice quite literally, and regarding her as a rare combination of faultless angel, brilliant genius, and perfect beauty.
"And now," said Felicity, standing up to her full height—which was far from imposing—"Go, please, Vera! I expect the hairdresser."