Charley rushes in with a bundle. I speak: “Are you up, dear, and not sorry that we came?” “Haven’t time. Get up and see your new dress.” I sit up. “Invisible garments,” he explains. I hurry to him to find only the usual feathered robes, that in tint and style give all an appearance of the feathered tribe. Tufted cap and sweeping train; wing sleeves, with which, could we fly, we would be the angels we are called.
“But where is the invisible?” I inquire.
“Dressed like everybody else, not visible, because not conspicuous,” settles that problem.
I take the hint and hastily get into the suit assigned me, but not as quick as he, for he is dressed, and out, and down the hall, while I admire myself in the glittering ice-mirror walls, vanity for a moment overcoming homesickness to forget that such an unhuman-like attire, though beautiful in heaven’s songsters, is more beautiful, even, in a civilized American.
In bounds Saucy—that is what we nickname Mae. “Where is my dress?”
“Here.” She is soon in it, her flowing hair making her a canary. Bowing to me in mockery, she says:
“We belong here now. Where is Charley,” looking around.
“Gone out,” I reply.
“I am going to catch him.”
“So am I.”