Seven o’clock saw her slipping into the exquisite peachblow evening frock of shimmering silk which she was to wear to the party under her domino, nor could she be other than pleasantly elated at the story her mirror told her. Her curls arranged in a low, graceful knot at the back of her shapely head, her cheeks glowing with excitement and her brown eyes two pools of radiant light, Marjorie could not be blamed for taking a pardonable pride in her appearance. She heaved a soft little sigh of regret as she covered the glory of her new frock with a somber domino, and hid her witching face behind a black mask. Then she ran lightly downstairs, stopping in the hall to annex the new broom Delia had left there for her.
“I’m ready, Captain,” she called in deep, sepulchral tones, as she paused in the doorway of the living room where her mother sat reading.
Sight of the sinister figure and sound of the hollow voice startled Mrs. Dean briefly, as she glanced up from her book.
Marjorie’s merry laugh rang out as she hastily stripped off the concealing domino and mask. “I thought I could scare you,” she teased. “Now tell me that I look very gorgeous and kiss me good-bye, for I must hurry along to the land of spooks and witches.”
“Remember, fine feathers don’t make fine birds,” retaliated her mother, fond admiration of her pretty daughter in her sweeping survey of the dainty vision before her.
“That means I look specially nice,” translated Marjorie. “Thank you, Captain.” Holding the broom rifle fashion, she brought one hand to her forehead in brisk salute. “Now the gallant army is off duty for a pleasant evening. I hope I haven’t kept General waiting.” Marjorie hastily resumed her cloak and mask.
“Ask him,” smiled her mother as she accompanied her to the door. Lifting the flap of the mask she kissed Marjorie tenderly. “Have a good time, dear, and come home in good season.”
“What have we here!” exclaimed Mr. Dean in mock horror as a weird, black-robed figure, bearing the proverbial witch’s broom, advanced down the walk toward the automobile in which he was seated. “Must I show the white feather and flee from this ghastly apparition?”
“You must not,” emphasized a very human young voice. “Stand your ground or be court-martialed.”
“I won’t budge an inch. I prefer the company of shades, rather than lose my prestige as an invincible general,” flung back Mr. Dean valiantly.