"I guess you'd better finish this one," said Dr. Bennett, abandoning his task. "I rather tackle a case of smallpox than wrestle with another job like that. She'd look much better in mittens."
"Mittens!" snubbed Mabel. "You can't make formal calls in mittens! Now, Somebody, please put me into my jacket and hat, if I'm not to touch anything."
The decidedly depressed four, in their Sunday best, started down the street. Mabel's gloves, owing to their brilliant color, were certainly conspicuous, and unconsciously she made them more so by the careful and rigid manner in which she carried them. It was plain that she had them very much on her mind. And when her hat tilted forward over one eye she left it there rather than risk damaging those immaculate lemon-hued gloves.
"Take my muff," implored Marjory. "That yellow splendor lights up the whole street."
"No, siree," declined Mabel. "If Mrs. Slater wants gloves she's going to have 'em. Do you think I'm going to suffer like this and not have 'em show?"
So Mabel, a swollen, imprisoned but gorgeous hand dangling at each side, a big navy-blue hat flopping over one eye, strutted muffless down the street.
"That's the house," announced Jean, as they turned the corner. "That big one with the covered driveway."
"Ugh!" shuddered Marjory, "it gives me chills to think of ringing such a wealthy doorbell. Are the cards safe, Bettie? My! I hope you haven't lost them."
"In my pocket in an envelope," assured Bettie.
"Can you see any white?" queried Jean, nervously. "I think my top petticoat has broken loose."