“No, I don’t mean just the black dress,” stated Cynthia in what she hoped was a firm tone. “I mean your costume. Stasia Carruthers and I made one for you this afternoon. You’re going as a Green Witch. See here.” She took down the tall peaked hat, clapped it on the small gray head and turned her roommate to face the mirror. “Then the cape, like this.” She flung the long cape around the thin shoulders. “Of course we must make you up. A little powder on your nose, probably some rouge on your cheeks. But put on your black dress first. And hurry.”
“Oh my dear, I couldn’t—I’m too old—what will people think?” Mildly clucking, continuing to protest, Miss Mitchall was shoved into her costume, into the shoes with the silver buckles, into the long green cape. Cynthia, against the other’s mild opposition, patted rouge on the pale cheeks, then flung a towel over the cape and shook half a box of white talcum powder on the gray hair.
“But my dear,” beamed Miss Mitchall, “it ... it makes me look so ... so young.”
Indeed it did. The contrast of green cloth against the white hair was dramatic. “Very successful,” purred Cynthia. “You’ll be the belle of the ball. And it’s not immoral to look young you know. Now sit down there and be good till I get this scarf tied. Or no, ring for the steward, we must get a broom to go with the witch.”
By the time they hurried out of their cabin the echoes of the dinner gong had been dead for ten minutes. But the corridors were full of laughing groups: harlequins, monks, pierrots, Turkish ladies, Dutch girls and nondescript costumes that defied a label. For fear that the Green Witch might bolt back to the cabin, Cynthia kept close behind her but after a few minutes realized this was unnecessary. Their passage was a minor triumphal procession for everyone turned to look at them and made some delighted exclamation over the novel costumes. Cynthia was amused to note that Miss Mitchall’s sharp little chin went higher, her step became firmer as the approbation grew and by the time they reached the stairway to the dining saloon she walked like a princess approaching her throne.
Cheers and a spatter of applause greeted their descent and three tables claimed their company but Cynthia looked around and made a quick decision. In a far corner sat Harvey O’Neill, as the Tin Woodman, and Johnnie Graham, in sackcloth and straw, presumably a scarecrow. Miss Mitchall needed what only an Irish tongue could supply. Cynthia steered toward the small table.
“May I introduce the Green Witch of Greenwich Village?” sang Cynthia above the hubbub. “Did you know that Green Witches had special magic and charms, much stronger than black and white ones?”
“Special charms, certainly,” agreed the Irishman. “Come and cast a spell on me, Miss Witch,” and he pulled out a chair for her. Cynthia took the one next to Johnnie.
“Smart of you,” he whispered in her ear, “to give her a costume that went with her specs. It’s one of the best on the floor.”
There was an almost continual pageant down the wide stairs. Stasia made her entrance alone and effectively in the long, slinky costume of a modern French doll. From the bright orange wig of knitted yarn, through the high bodice and long full skirt of brilliant reds and raw blues to the absurdly high heeled slippers of green satin and the painted circles on her cheeks beneath the wide lashed baby stare, she was perfect in every detail. Even to a price tag on her shoulder stating “twenty five francs.” She was followed by a Spanish señorita on the arm of a George Belchers, charlady, red nosed, apron-garbed, three dingy violets nodding in his bonnet as he stumbled apologetically, paused to mop up the steps before the señorita and dramatized the amusing entrance.