"Because, when, after infinite toil, you have caught a netful of mankind for theatricals, you naturally choose the next day for a dance. And because a girl ought to go to a ball. How can she tell her metier if she only keeps to one? Besides, it is your holiday."
"I shan't like it a bit, and I shall feel dowdy in this thing." She held up a white stuff gown, with the oddest mixture of self-complacency and disdain. "Of course, it will do quite well, and it would have been recklessly extravagant of me to get another, seeing that I shan't want evening dresses at a Board School; but I shall be a dowdy all the same."
"I doubt it," remarked her guardian, busy adjusting his screws. "Now, you really ought to go and dress, my dear. In my time girls----"
"In your time!" she flashed out. "Why? Why, you are quite up to date, Tom, and I--I am hopelessly arriérée, especially in my dress! Oh, dear f I suppose I must----"
A minute afterwards she came flying down the stairs, followed by Mrs. Cameron, who had evidently been on the watch for the occasion in Marjory's room, and was determined not to lose the scene downstairs. It was rather a pretty one, though the first words were distinctly sordid.
"Oh, Tom! what did it cost?"
"Now, that really is the rudest question! I'm surprised at you," returned Dr. Kennedy, trying to jest, though something in the girl's face told him she was not far from tears.
"But it is dreadful," she began.
"Naethin' o' the sort," broke in Mrs. Cameron, breathlessly. "Just don't belie the nature God gave to you. It's just beautiful, and the doctor and me has been agog these three days lest it should not come in time, for it is ill getting things to Gleneira from Paris."
"Paris!" echoed Marjory. "Yes, I thought it looked like Paris! How foolish of you, Tom!"