“It was never made for me,” affirmed the child with conviction.
“Indeed, it was. Mother sat up ever so late last night and made it for you.”
“Well, that, of course, was a matter I should have been consulted about.”
Bonnie May was now sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to make the toes of one foot come in contact with the floor. Miss Baron sat on a low chair in the middle of the room, the new dress spread across her knees.
“But you’re glad, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I’m glad in a way. I’m glad that anybody so disagreeable could really try to do you a good turn.” Clearly, each day was a new day, with Bonnie May.
“But, dear child, mother won’t seem disagreeable to you when you come to know her. It hurts me to have you speak so of her—truly it does. And I think she must have worked until she was very weary, making the dress for you.”
“I appreciate all that,” the guest hastened to explain, genuine compunction in her voice. “But you see, the dress isn’t at all suitable.”
“I’m sure you’ll like it much better when you try it on.”
“Take my word for it—it won’t do.”