"Oh, what a shame!" said Sue. "Will you have to send it back, Clarice, or can you have it altered here? There is a very good dressmaker; she makes all our clothes,—Mary's and mine,—except what are made at home."
Clarice tittered.
"I'm afraid she wouldn't be quite my style," she said. "I wondered where your clothes were made, you poor child! But this is all right. I'll just take in my stays a little, that's all."
"Oh, don't, Clarice! Please don't! I am sure it will hurt you. Why, that would be tight lacing, and tight lacing does dreadful things to you. I learned about it at school. Dear Clarice, don't do it, please!"
"Little goose! who said anything about tight lacing? I'm only going to—there! Now look—I can put my whole hand in. You mustn't be so awfully countrified, Sue. You can't expect every one to go about in a bag, as you and Mary Hart do. I am two years older than you, my dear, and I haven't lived in a village all my life. It is likely that I know quite as much about such matters as you do."
"I—I beg your pardon, Clarice!" said Sue, the quick tears starting to her eyes. "Of course you know a great, great deal more than I do; I—I only thought—"
"There, do you see?" Clarice went on. "Now, that is real comfortable—perfectly comfortable; and it does fit alegant, don't it?"
"It certainly makes you look very slender," faltered Sue.
"Don't it?" repeated Clarice. "That's what my dressmaker always says."
She was turning slowly round and round before the glass, enjoying the effect. "There is nothing like a slender figure, she says; and I think so, too. Why, Sue, if you'll promise never to tell a soul, I'll tell you something. I used to be fat when I was your age—almost as fat as Mary Hart. Just think of it!"