“Silly to bring it,” she reflected, “but I had to have something.” She shook out the robe and surveyed the mortar-board hat critically.
An extra clothes’ tree had been placed by her bed (one of the twins), just where she would be sure to understand that the articles hung upon it were intended for her.
Thoughtful Cara! A beautiful lavender cloud of georgette proved to be a party dress. Barbara touched it gingerly and then, since the mute thing didn’t bite her, she became more familiar with it and examined it, closely.
How lovely! Shaded lavender from orchid to purple with a golden silk slip to throw the colors out. There was also a soft gray skirt with a pearl-gray blouse and a velveteen short coat of jade green.
“But the girls would know,” she was thinking when she espied a note pinned to the skirt. It was from Cara, of course, and it hinted that Bab’s aunt in New York had surprised her with a box of lovely things. This was the excuse suggested as Bab’s explanation if the girls seemed suspicious.
“Why not?” Cara had asked naïvely in her note. “You could have an aunt in New York, couldn’t you? And she could send you things?”
A twinge of hurt pride pricked Barbara at the idea. Cara was just a jolly fun-loving girl, who believed it perfectly fair and square to defend any reasonable situation with a reasonable excuse; but then it was not Cara who was being defended. It was easy to do it for some one else, but would she herself have accepted it?
No, Barbara did not love clothes well enough to go to much trouble for them. She was afraid she wouldn’t have much fun in Cara’s finery, although it was certainly lovely. But neither would she feel right to refuse and hurt Cara. Which would be worse? To hurt her own pride or to hurt Cara’s generosity?
“Oh, clothes!” she repeated again, “what a nuisance they are, either to have or to need! They’re not really of such importance and yet we are so proud we feel we must be all decked out like the poor helpless Christmas trees. Everything must dazzle us or we don’t want it,” she reflected cynically.
The room about her was beautiful indeed, soft and soothing in its tones of gold and green, with no trifling objects stuck around to offend the best taste. But except for a small row of books held by two painted book-ends (from Italy) there was nothing in the whole room to indicate mental personality. Cara was not reflected in her room.