“I couldn’t understand then why that peachblow dress was such a frost on me. It wasn’t either the style, or the color that was unbecoming. It was the general effect of the confounded dress. It was not until long afterward, when I had come to know Marjorie, and to love her, that I found out the reason for that frock flivver. It was the combination of dress and wearer that had caught my fancy. She had given the dress its remarkable individuality. I was entirely out of harmony with her. You can understand——” Leslie paused, brows drawn in a frown.
“Yes,” Leila nodded. “It would be different now, if you were to try the same thing again as an experiment.”
“I couldn’t do that again. You see I’m different now. I’m trying to be true to myself; to express that new self even in dress. I used to think of nothing but snatching the prettiest and best of everything that happened to please me. I was crazy to be thought very individual, and all the time my true individuality was being submerged fathoms deep beneath selfishness. That peachblow dress flivver gave me a frightful jolt, I was sore over it for weeks. But it didn’t wake me up. I only wish it had,” Leslie finished with a rueful shrug.
“Are you ready?” Vera’s breezy entrance into the room precluded the possibility of any further confidence that Leslie might have felt an impulse to impart to Leila.
Leila had listened to Leslie’s unexpected revelation with inward surprise. Leslie was inclined to be silent rather than talkative when in her company, and usually impersonal in her conversation. She broke away from her own surprised thoughts with a little start to answer Vera’s question. “We are, Midget. What about the cars?”
“They’re both out on the drive; I had one of the garage men drive yours over when I went to the garage for mine.” Vera, daintily diminutive in a white pongee ensemble, waved a comprehensive hand in the direction of the drive. “I saw your roadster out in front, Leslie. Good work.”
“Yes; I brought it from the garage early this afternoon. I’ve been so busy arranging, disarranging, and then re-arranging the furniture in this room that I haven’t felt the wheel under my fingers for the past two days. I’m through here, at last. How do you like the lay-out?” she asked with a touch of concern.
“It’s lovely.” Vera glanced about her with appreciative eyes: “I adore the mulberry color scheme. Marjorie and Jerry were going to have 15 done over in fawn and blue the last year they were here. Then they went to the Arms to live, and it never happened.”
“Glad you like it. I’m going to leave it as it stands when I go home to the Hedge at Christmas—as a last good-will offering to old Wayland Hall, you know,” she explained whimsically.
“It’s by far the grandest room in the house now,” Leila said with an approving glance about her. The thick velvet rug, painted willow study table with its oval glass top, the silk-cushioned wicker chairs had all been done in a rich mulberry color. The chiffonier, dressing table and day bed were of Circassian walnut. The bed was upholstered in the same soft silk as the chairs and piled with mulberry silk cushions, corded and embroidered in dull gilt. The effect of luxurious grandeur of the rehabilitated room, however, was pleasingly lessened by the wealth of college banners and trophies, framed photographs of classmates and other treasured college souvenirs which decked the pale tan, mulberry-bordered walls.