"It's pretty. What's more important, it will keep clean a long time without washing."
Hilda laughed. "Getting practical at last. Nothing like a baby for doing that. Do you remember the arguments we used to have when you were fourteen, about that black sateen petticoat? You always insisted that it must be just as dirty as if it were white, and wanted to send it to the laundry every week?"
Anne nodded. How she had loathed dark clothes supposed not to show the dirt! "I must have been a nasty child, always fussing about something."
"You weren't at all. But you were pretty finicky and highfalutin. I never did know what was going to send you off. And how you loved pretty things! Even as a tiny baby, I always felt you enjoyed having your best things on. You used to feel one dress, rub your little hands up and down it softly—it was really a lovely cambric; papa's boss's wife sent it; her baby had outgrown it—and goo and smile. I suppose you would have a fit to see his Highness dressed in any one else's cast-offs, but I was glad to get it. How far along's the layette?"
"Most of the under-things are done, not quite all. I haven't begun on dresses."
"I thought you were going to buy those, the best ones?"
"No—I don't—think I will. They'll be cheaper to make."
"But they're such close sewing and you don't like that kind of work, tucks and hemstitching. Don't be a penny-wise and a pound-foolish and get all frazzled out, Anne."
"No—at least—I won't be a pound-foolish. Roger's left Mr. Wainwright."
"Oh!" Hilda gasped. "Oh, Anne, when did it happen?"