"Nonsense, dear, of course you have! We don't have to dress much for this thing. Where's your white linen or your tan or your blue?"
"The white is too soiled, and the other two have worn places that show."
"But there's your chambray—that isn't worn."
Elsie shook her head.
"But I can't—that, truly, Genevieve. It's got worse and worse every day, until now anybody can tell Cora and Clara apart!"
Genevieve choked back a laugh. She was frowning prodigiously when Elsie looked up.
"I'll tell you, Elsie, I've got just the thing," she cried. "Wear my white linen—it's perfectly fresh, and 'twill fit you, I'm sure."
Elsie's face turned scarlet.
"Oh, Genevieve! I wouldn't—I couldn't! I'd never, never do such an awful thing," she gasped. "Why, what would Aunt Kate say?—my wearing your clothes like that! Oh, I never thought of your taking it that way! Never mind—I'll fix something," she choked, as she turned and fled down the hall, leaving a distressed and almost an angry Genevieve behind her.
For some minutes Genevieve busied herself with her own toilet, jerking hooks and ribbons into place with unnecessary force; then she turned despairingly to Mrs. Kennedy, whose room she was sharing.