“What are you going to wear this morning, Lucy?” asked Evelyn, from the doorway, where she could see both girls at once.
“The little flowered one, I guess,” said Lucile, struggling with her hair. “I haven’t worn it yet and Dad raves about it.”
“I wish you would wear the blue one,” Evelyn suggested. “I think it’s the prettiest thing you have.”
“But I’ve worn it so much,” Lucile objected. “I don’t want to be known by my dress.”
With apparent irrelevance, Jessie called out from the other room, “Jack loves blue.” 170
Instead of looking confused, as she knew was expected of her, Lucile answered, readily. “I’ll wear it then, of course. Phil likes blue, too.”
Evelyn and Jessie exchanged glances and the latter laughed aggravatingly.
“Evelyn, what have you done with my tan shoes?” cried Jessie, searching wildly under the bed. “I’m sure I put them in their place, and they’re nowhere to be seen,” and she sat back on her heels to glare menacingly about her.
“Here they are,” called Lucile from the other room. “You left them here last night. Hurry up! I’m all ready now.”
They were pictures of youthful loveliness as they began to descend the stairs—Evelyn, in her snowy white, looking for all the world like a plump and mischievous little cherub, and Jessie in the palest pink, which set off and enhanced her fairness. But it was to Lucile that all eyes instinctively clung. The soft curls framing the lovely, eager face; the color that came and went with each varying emotion; the instinctive grace with which she carried her proud little head, won her admiration wherever she went.