“Why—why, I guess likely you could, Serena. Yes, course you can. You go see Sarah Loveland right off.”
Miss Loveland was the Trumet dressmaker. At the mention of her name Serena shook her head.
“I don't want Sarah to make them, Daniel,” she said. “Mrs. Black says the things she makes are awful old-fashioned; 'country,' she calls them.”
Daniel snorted. “I want to know!” he exclaimed. “Well, I remember her husband when his ma used to make his clothes out of his dad's old ones. I don't know whether they was 'country' or not, but they were the dumdest things ever I saw. Country, huh! Scarford ain't any Paris, is it? I never heard it was.”
“Well, it isn't Trumet. No, Daniel, if we could afford it, I'd like to have these dresses made up in Boston, where Gertie gets hers. Mrs. Black often speaks of Gertie's gowns; she says they are remarkably stylish, considering.”
“CONSIDERIN'! What does she mean by that?”
“Don't be cross. I suppose she meant considering that they were not as expensive as her own. DO you suppose I could go to that Boston dressmaker, Daniel?”
Captain Dan's reply was slow in coming. He hated to say no; in fact, he said it so seldom that he scarcely knew how. So he temporized.
“Well, Serena,” he began, “I—I'd like to have you; you know that. If 'twasn't for the cost I wouldn't hesitate a minute.”
“But we have that three thousand dollars.”