Stasia took the last pin out of her mouth. “Slip off your blouse now, and I’ll baste it up for you. You’ll make a sweet pirate, if pirates ever were sweet.”
Cynthia, free of the blouse, turned to experiment before the long mirror in the door, hesitating between the respective merits of a red bandana handkerchief over her black curls and the more sinister effect of a black scarf which could be continued down into a black mask with eyeholes.
Stasia bit off her thread. “There, that’s ready. When will you break it to Miss Mitchall that she’s got to wear a costume tonight?”
Cynthia giggled. “You ought to come along and help me. But I guess I’ll wait till the last minute and rush her into the idea.” She glanced toward the bed where a tall, witch’s cap, made of green cardboard from the ship’s barber shop, reposed beside a cape of green broadcloth, borrowed from Stasia, and a pair of Miss Mitchall’s own shoes, now adorned with huge buckles of cardboard and silver foil.
“I’ll need some help with my wig,” said Stasia, “and then I think we’re all finished.” The wig was of bright orange yarn, loosely knitted into a tight fitting cap of coarse net which completely covered Stasia’s sleek bob.
“It needs tightening at the back. Wait a moment.” Cynthia braced her feet. “Dash this boat, I hope she stops rolling before dinner or we shan’t have any dance. Do they always have a costume party every trip?”
“Uh-huh. Always the second day before we get into Cherbourg, Paris, day after tomorrow. Aren’t you thrilled?”
Cynthia, pinning the wig into a better fit, murmured a vague assent. But she didn’t feel at all thrilled. After eight days the ship was like another home in which she knew, by sight at least, almost every occupant. Paris was going to be new and strange. Oh yes, a grand new adventure, but sometimes she got scared at the thought of it. So big, with all the street signs and the menus in a different language and so much that was new to learn. What if she failed to make good on the job that had brought her over, the dozen covers for Little Ones’ Magazine? Suppose she didn’t have the money to stay? Suppose she couldn’t make people understand her French, even though Stasia had been coaching her all week? Oh shut up, Cynthia!
“Miss Mitchall’s the old girl I admire,” she said suddenly. “She’s got more courage! You know she’s returning practically without a job and without money and she’s fifty if she’s a day, though she looks sixty, poor darling. I don’t believe she’s got ten dollars beyond her fare to London.”