Out came—out it had to come—Maida's $4.
«You blessed darling,» cried Grace, now a rainbow instead of sunset. «I'll pay the mean old thing and then I'm going to try on my dress. I think it's heavenly. Come up and look at it. I'll pay the money back, a dollar a week—honest I will.»
Thanksgiving.
The dinner was to be at noon. At a quarter to twelve Grace switched into Maida's room. Yes, she looked charming. Red was her color. Maida sat by the window in her old cheviot skirt and blue waist darning a st—. Oh, doing fancy work.
«Why, goodness me! ain't you dressed yet?» shrilled the red one. «How does it fit in the back? Don't you think these velvet tabs look awful swell? Why ain't you dressed, Maida?»
«My dress didn't get finished in time,» said Maida. «I'm not going to the dinner.»
«That's too bad. Why, I'm awfully sorry, Maida. Why don't you put on anything and come along—it's just the store folks, you know, and they won't mind.»
«I was set on my purple,» said Maida. «If I can't have it I won't go at all. Don't bother about me. Run along or you'll be late. You look awful nice in red.»
At her window Maida sat through the long morning and past the time of the dinner at the store. In her mind she could hear the girls shrieking over a pull–bone, could hear old Bachman's roar over his own deeply–concealed jokes, could see the diamonds of fat Mrs. Bachman, who came to the store only on Thanksgiving days, could see Mr. Ramsay moving about, alert, kindly, looking to the comfort of all.
At four in the afternoon, with an expressionless face and a lifeless air she slowly made her way to Schlegel's shop and told him she could not pay the $4 due on the dress.