“What shall we wear?” asked Julie who scrambled after her sister, shedding her wet things as she went.
“I got out your light silks, dearie,” came from Bridget.
“Do you suppose we ought to wear hats?” This from Hester, who was wishing they had planned their costumes the night before.
“Perhaps we ought,” ruefully. “Good gracious! I haven’t any—not a small one, Hester.”
“A trifle inconvenient, isn’t it? I might lend you the rose toque I bought in Paris.”
“Indeed you won’t, it exactly matches your gown and you look dear in it. I’ll wear a bow in my hair or something.” A bow, to Julie, always filled any discrepancy.
Hester arrested her in the act of trying this effect before the mirror and sat her down brusquely in a chair.
“Give me that bow,” she commanded, “and keep still. I’ll make a hat on your head! Bridget, you get down her picture hat quick, and rip off the tips and the band of jet and some lace and we’ll fix her up in a jiffy!”
It was a wonderful creation—just a bit of lace and jet and ribbon with never a stitch in it, all fastened with hairpins to Julie’s curly head. Two white ostrich tips stood up saucily at the side, a few violets were coquettishly stuck in the back and the effect was immensely modish and becoming.
“Hold your head high all the evening and don’t toss it about for your life!” warned Hester. “If you do, the whole thing will fall to pieces.”