During Maria’s early life at home she had had much experience in the ways of washing. She knew the smell of boiled soap. She had often watched the steam rising from the copper, and played among the clouds, and she well knew that the quickest way to dry anything that has been soaked is to give it a good wringing.
She had therefore given Dexter’s new suit a good wringing, and wrung out of it a vast quantity of sticky dye which stained her hands. Then she had—grumbling bitterly all the time—given the jacket, vest, and trousers a good shake, and hung them over a clothes-horse as near to the fire as she could get them without singeing.
Mrs Millett told her to be sure and get them nice and dry, and Maria did get them “nice and dry.”
And now Dexter had put them on and presented himself before Helen, suggesting that he looked a guy.
Certainly his appearance was suggestive of the stuffed effigy borne about on the fifth of November, for the garments were shrunken so that his arms and legs showed to a terrible extent, and Maria’s wringing had given them curves and hollows never intended by the cutter, the worst one being in the form of a hump between the wearer’s shoulders.
“The things are completely spoiled. You foolish boy to put them on.”
“Then I can’t go to that other house.”
“Nonsense! You have the new clothes that came from the tailor’s—those for which you were measured.”
“Yes,” said Dexter reluctantly; “but it’s a pity to put on them. I may get ’em spoiled.”
“Then you do not want to go, Dexter,” said Helen, smiling.