"I think you ought to see what it costs to dress a young woman who is going to masquerade as the cousin of a gentleman of means," said Miss May, as we turned the corner. "I want you to decide on each article, since the expense is to come out of your pocket. I must say another thing also, at this time. I shall not consider as my own anything I need to buy. I am merely in the position of an actress whose wardrobe is to be provided by her manager. Whenever our engagement terminates I will return every article to you in as good shape as possible."
I was staggered by the suggestion, as well as impressed by the sentiment that led her to make it.
"What could I do with a lot of gowns—and—lingerie?" I inquired, helplessly. "They would be a veritable drug on my hands."
"They could be altered," she said, thoughtfully. "I shall be very careful of them."
"Altered!" I cried. "For whom?"
"For the next typewriter you may happen to engage."
I laughed to conceal the disagreeable feeling which the thought gave me.
"As a joke that is stupendous," I said, "but, if you don't mind, I would rather you would be funny on some other subject."
She relapsed into silence, something after the manner of a child who has been chidden, which did not add to my ease. I had no idea of scolding her. Luckily we were soon at Altman's.
I had come provided with plenty of money that time. The cash she had brought was exhausted when we left this place and we did not seem to have got much for it, either. A milliner was next visited, where the price of the few articles purchased was forgotten in my admiration of the charming appearance Marjorie made in her new headgear. Then we drove to another establishment, where she was obliged to hide herself from view for three-quarters of an hour, with a bill of eighty-five dollars as the result. She explained that she had got nothing she could possibly avoid, when it was considered that we might be several weeks at a time without a laundress, and I said the only fear I had was that she would buy too little.