“What do you mean, mother?”
“Well, April dear, of course I know you think you know best, but that white frock—it is so very simple.”
“But simple things suit me, mother.”
“I know they do, dear; you look sweet in anything; but at a big dance like this, where there’ll be so many smart people, they might think—well, I don’t know, dear, but it is very quiet, isn’t it?”
The moment before April had been happy and excited, and now she was crushed and humiliated. She sat down on the edge of a chair, gazing with pathetic pity at her brilliant shoes.
“You’ve spoilt it all,” she said.
“No, dear. I’m sure you’ll be thankful to me when you get there. Now, why don’t you run upstairs and put on that nice mauve frock of yours?”
“I don’t like mauve.”
“Well then, dear, there’s the green and yellow; you always look nice in that.”