Miss Guggenheim couldn’t sing, but she could dress, and she had an inspiration a week before the concert.
“What are you going to wear, girls?” she asked.
“Anything we have, is the general idea,” said Tommy. “Mine is black.”
“Mine’s blue”—“White”—“Pink!” came from the other three.
“But must you wear those particular dresses? Can’t you each compromise a little so as to look better together?”
“So hard to compromise when each of us has one dress hanging on one nail; one neck and sleeves filled up for afternoons and ripped out for evenings!”
“I should get four simple dresses just alike,” said Miss Guggenheim, who had a dozen.
“What if they should hang in our closets unworn and unpaid for?” asked Jessie Macleod.
“We’re sure to get at least one engagement some time or other. Nothing ventured, nothing have. We ought to earn enough to pay for the dresses, if we do nothing more,”—and Tommy’s vote settled it.
Miss Guggenheim knew people, if she did sing flat, and her drawing-room was full on the occasion of the début. Carl Bothwick, a friend of Tommy’s, was in a publishing office, and nobly presented programmes for the occasion. The quartette had not thought of naming itself, but Carl had grouped the songs under the heading, “The Singing Girls,” and luckily they liked the idea.