Mrs. Montague laughed.
"I will write and ask your mother," she said, "but we really can't take 'no.'" And she said it so graciously that the tears came into Alma's eyes.
"It would be too lovely!" said Dot breathlessly.
On Sunday afternoon, just as the evening shadows were stealing out and the daylight was growing grey, Alma ran into the little blue sitting-room, her great eyes luminous.
"Oh, Thea darling!" she said, and then she stopped in surprise. Only a little while ago Dot had tripped upstairs, her hair in a golden plait down her back, her dress not so low as her boot-tops by quite three inches.
And now! She was sitting in an easy chair, her dress skirt lowered till it reached the floor, her hair loosely done up on the top of her head, her blue, blue eyes staring through the windows to the darkening harbour waters, afar off.
She blushed rosily red when Alma ran in.
"I—I was just thinking," she said.
"What were you thinking of, Thea?" asked Alma, "and what have you done your hair like this for? You do look so pretty—I wish the girls could see you."
Dot pulled her friend towards her and patted the arm of her chair for her to sit there. Then she leaned her head upon Alma's shoulder and held one of her hands between her own two.