“No,” replied Marjorie, “for two reasons. First, I didn’t think that tonight would be a good time to distribute them, on account of carrying them home, but principally because there are fifteen little girls in the ward, and I wouldn’t want to take them for some and not for all. And you and Dot and I couldn’t possibly dress five dolls apiece.”
“Oh, I’ll help!” cried Sophia, who was in the mood to agree to anything anyone asked.
“We’ll all do it, Miss Wilkinson,” muttered Queenie, not too pleasantly.
“Not unless you really want to,” Marjorie stipulated.
“All right, we want to, then. Bring ’em next week.”
As soon as Marjorie was with John again, she told him of their expressions of willingness, which, she had to admit, seemed rather reluctant.
“All right—I didn’t expect they’d enthuse over sewing. Most girls don’t. Look at the jokes in the paper about the married men who have to sew their own buttons on!”
“I never cared for it much myself,” remarked Marjorie.
“Trying to scare me?” he inquired jokingly, but was rewarded with a withering look.
“I had no idea that they would be interested,” he continued, “until they actually pay a visit to the hospital. Only, by the way—mother had a suggestion to offer. She wants to supply the goods—what do you call ’em?—remnants?—and lace and ribbons to make the dresses, and said she’d be glad to offer a prize—a handbag, or something—to the girl who dresses the prettiest one.”