“No, thanks!” she replied, in her scornful way. But something in Rose’s face made her flush and glance away. “Well,” she said, sullenly, “I am having a pretty bad time. There’s no reason why you should bother, but—”
Rose came up on the veranda beside her, and surveyed the woeful muddle.
“What a pretty shade!” she remarked. “It ought to go well with your hair.”
“I know,” said Margie. “Paul—I mean—I’ve been told I ought to wear green. And I’m going somewhere to-morrow afternoon.”
“But you don’t expect to have this dress ready for to-morrow afternoon.”
“I’ve got to.”
Rose reflected for a moment.
“I’ll tell you what!” she announced at last. “I have a green dress—a really pretty georgette. I’ve only worn it once. With just a little bit of altering, we could make it do beautifully for you to wear to-morrow. It’s a good model. I got it in Paris last autumn. Won’t you come and look at it?”
“No!” cried Margie. “I don’t want any of your old clothes. I don’t want—” Her voice broke. “I just hate you and your—highfalutin’ ways!” she ended with a sob.
“Upon my word!” Rose began, indignantly. “Is that—” But her resentment could not endure against the sight of Margie weeping in that furious, defiant way, the tears falling recklessly on the green charmeuse.