So then and there a tremendous turn out takes place; and Mrs. Merivale's bed-room, where the foregoing conversation has taken place, is the scene of trying on and taking off for a good hour.
Doris and Molly turn out their own particular hoards also, though the latter's, in the matter of evening apparel, is somewhat scanty. Still it is found that their white silks, which were their winter party dresses, and only new shortly before the death of their father, are in perfectly good condition still, and with judicious management the two together can be made into one very presentable dress for Molly.
Doris's few evening dresses provided by her aunt when abroad, and modest enough in themselves, prove to be a little shabby when seen by daylight, and the girl's spirits begin to sink accordingly.
"That pale pink of mother's is lovely," she says, looking at one which Honor is in the act of shaking out, "but Lancelot insists on my being in white. Such nonsense! I declare I would spend my last few shillings in having a new white net or something; but it would look absurd for Molly to be in silk and me not. What about Honor, too?"
At this critical moment Becky appears staggering under the weight of a large milliner's box, her cap a little more awry than usual.
"For you, miss," she says, planting it on the floor close before Doris. "There ain't nothing to pay;" and looking very much as if she would like to stay, she slowly leaves the room.
"For me? Good gracious! what can it be?" and Doris pounces on the box, and tearing off both paper and string she very soon gets at the contents. A new dead, white silk is then triumphantly displayed, made with artistic simplicity, the only trimming being a little good lace.
Off comes Doris's dress in a trice, and in almost less time than it takes to tell she is in the new one, pulling here and patting there until it is all fastened (Doris gasping a little, but striving to conceal that fact), and pronounced by one and all to "do" charmingly.
"My stars," says Dick, appearing suddenly on the scene, "you do look stunning! What a pity our knight is not here to gaze upon his future bride in this—shall I say, regal attire," and the boy falls into an attitude of admiration and devotion. Doris bows her acknowledgments of these graceful compliments with a heightened colour; but whether the colour is due to the undeniable tightness of the bodice or the mention of the "knight" we will leave an open question; Dick inclining to the latter opinion, Doris (privately) to the former.
"You ungrateful girl!" suddenly cries Honor, who is engaged in smoothing out the many sheets of crumpled tissue paper strewn about the box and on the floor. "Here is a letter from aunt; how came you not to see it?"