“I shall never be ready!” she muttered, and she drew aside the green damask curtains from her bedstead, disclosing her ball dress, spread out on the bed—a diaphanous cloud of light-blue tulle.
That morning Frédérique’s dress had been sent home from the dressmaker, but she wanted to add a bow here and there herself, although she almost feared to touch it, lest she should tangle the filmy, web-like stuff.
“Oh, what shall I do!” she cried; then a sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she rushed out of the room, and on the landing she cried—
“Tilly, Tilly, Mathilde!”
One of the doors opened, and her sister, Madame van Ryssel, entered in some alarm.
“Freddie, what is the matter? why do you scream so? is the house on fire?”
“No; if it were I shouldn’t call for your help. But do help me a bit, or I shall never be ready.”
“Help you? what with?”
“With my ball-dress. I want to put on a bow or two. It’s so bare at the side, and I bought some ribbon.”
Madame van Ryssel was about to reply, when the door of Madame van Erlevoort’s room opened, and the old lady came out to ask what was the matter. At the same moment a shrill burst of laughter and a sound of children’s voices re-echoed from the landing, there was a loud tripping of little feet, and a girl of seven came half tumbling down the stairs, followed by a lad of six.