“What I mean is,” persisted Flora patiently, “I don’t like to work in my nice shoes.” She brought this out somewhat triumphantly.
“That’s funny. That’s the very time I like to look my best. Nothing is as important as your work, is it?”
Flora was almost in despair. “I doubt if I ever thought of it in just that light,” she admitted. “I’ll think it over, if you’ll try the dress on—and if you don’t like it, off it comes!”
“Well, all right.” (This with a sudden calm which was not reassuring.)
Flora slipped the gingham dress into place, and patted it here and there with the air of one who admires, and viewed it with her head inclined a little, as women do in such a situation. “It’s the dearest thing!” she said honestly. “Now come and see how you look.”
The mirror was a little high. She lifted Bonnie May to a chair.
She was alarmed by what ensued. The child stared fixedly, with incredulous eyes in which a great horror grew.
“Oh, Lord!” she cried, clapping her hands over her eyes. “Take it off! Take it off!”
“What in the world is the matter?” demanded Flora.
“She asks me what is the matter! Oh, heavens!” Bonnie May jumped down from the chair and turned her back to the mirror. She was wringing her hands.