“Lucky we’re starting on it so early in the month,” Fluffy said, a baby doll in a lace bonnet and a long white dress in one hand, and an Esquimaux, in white fur from head to foot, in the other.
“Get ’em both and come along,” advised Georgia. “You’ll look terribly cute going home with one on each arm.”
“And if you get small ones you can be getting more all the time,” Straight took her up. “Have a regular family, you know, and a carriage to take them out in, and a doll’s house to keep them in at home. A doll’s house would look great in your room, Fluffy dear.”
“It’s so bare and cheerless that it just needs a doll’s house,” declared Georgia. “I dare you to buy one and put it on your royal Bokara rug, between your teakwood table and your Dutch tee-stopf, with your best Whistler print hanging over it.”
Fluffy turned to the saleswoman. “These two, please,” she said, “and let me see your largest, loveliest doll’s house.”
The organizers and charter members of the C. I.’s tramped home in the autumn twilight, quarreling amiably about the relative advantages of “risking” to-morrow’s Logic quiz and writing “Lit.” papers between breakfast and chapel, or making a night of it—and in that case should the doll-dressing come before or after ten?
“I can’t ‘risk’ Logic,” Straight confessed sadly. “I’ve been warned already. Don’t make me sit up all by myself to cram. I’d almost rather not dress Rosa Marie to-night than do that.”
Just then they ran into Eugenia Ford coming out of the Music Building.
“Hello, Miss Ford,” Georgia greeted her pleasantly. “Look at Fluffy’s dolls. Have you got one yet?”
Eugenia, somewhat dazed by the suddenness of the onslaught, went into raptures over the baby doll, blushingly acknowledged that she hadn’t one, and begged for more light on the matter.