Gwendolyn had nothing to say.
Jane ran to the wardrobe and took out a dress. It was a new one, of cream-white wool; and on a sleeve, as well as on the corners of the sailor collar and the tips of the broad tie, scarlet anchors were embroidered.
Gwendolyn smiled. But it was not the anchors that charmed forth the smile. It was a pocket, set like a shield on the blouse—an adorable patch-pocket!
"Oh!" she cried; "did They make me that pocket? Jane, how sweet!"
"One, two, three," said Jane, briskly, "and we'll have this on! Let's see by the clock how quick you can jump into it!"
The clock was a familiar method of inducing Gwendolyn to do hastily something she had not thought of doing at all. She shook her head.
"Why, it'd do you good, pettie,"—this coaxingly.
"It's too warm to dress," said Gwendolyn.
Jane flung the garment back into the wardrobe without troubling to hang it up, and banged the wardrobe door. But she did not again broach the subject of getting up. A hint of uneasiness betrayed itself in her manner. She took a chair by the bed.
Gwendolyn's whole face was gradually taking on a deep flush, for those flaming spots on her cheeks were spreading to throat and temples—to her very hair. She kept her hands in constant motion. Next, the small tongue began to babble uninterruptedly.