“Yes, isn’t it, father? And she is so nice and considerate; she says I may go in my shabby clothes.”
“Your shabby clothes, Rachel!” he replied, putting on his spectacles and looking at me all over. “Your shabby clothes! Why should they be shabby?”
“Well, father,” I answered, “they are not very smart. You know you haven’t given me a new dress for over a year, and my best pale-blue, which I got the summer before last, is very short in the skirt, and also in the sleeves. But never mind,” I continued, as he looked quite troubled; “I’ll do; I know I’ll do.”
He looked at his watch.
“I declare,” he said, “this will never answer. I don’t wish my daughter, Professor Grant’s daughter, to go away on a visit, and of all people to Miss Grace Donnithorne, shabby. Look here, Dumps, can these things be bought to hand?”
“What do you mean, father?”
He took up a portion of my skirt.
“Things of that sort—can they be bought ready to put on?”
“Oh, I expect so, father.”
“They’re to be found in the big shops, aren’t they?”