Without waiting for my reply, she dived into the closet and brought out my fur tippet, but I begged so hard not to wear it, that she said as the day was mild I need not.
I'll have to see grandmother and have it disposed of before another churchgoing time.
Aunt Gwendolin herself was beautifully dressed in a light blue-gray; at a glance she looked like a passing cloud dropped down from the sky, but a closer inspection revealed a mystery of shirrings, tuckings, smockings, frillings never seen in a cloud. In reply to my questions she had told me the name of all the strange puckerings. I'd like the cloud-gown better without the puckerings.
"What do we go to church for?" I asked as we were being whirled along in the automobile, which was controlled by a very good-looking young man whom they called "Chauffeur."
"Why—Why—What a heathen you are! To worship God, of course," said my aunt shortly.
"Does God require us to wear such fashionable clothes to worship Him?" I asked, feeling wearied with the effort of dressing—collars, belts, buckles, pins, gloves, corsets, shoes, hats, buttonings, and lacings.
Uncle Theodore laughed, and Aunt Gwendolin frowned, and looked carefully round to see whether her white taffeta petticoat was touching the ground—we were by this time at the church and walking from the automobile to the church door.
Following Aunt Gwendolin's lead, we were soon in a front seat.