“I don’t understand at all!” exclaimed Miss Baron hopelessly.
“You might!” was the emphatic rejoinder. “Do you suppose I want to play that kind of a part—here? It might do for the little sister of a sewing-machine girl, or a mountain-pink with her hair in knobs. But it wouldn’t do for anything else. If you was only one of the populace, a costume like that would cause a scream! If you don’t understand it, take my word for it. I can’t wear it! I ask you to take it off!”
Miss Baron became very quiet. She became thoughtful, too. She had not failed to catch the drift of these exaggerated words. There was something prim, something rudimentary, about the dress. Color suffused her cheeks; she hung her head. She felt a forlorn inclination to laugh. From a vantage point behind the child she began to remove the gingham dress.
It was inappropriate. She had to admit it. It was a dress for a Gretchen; for the Cinderella of the kitchen, rather than the princess of the coach-and-four. It wasn’t becoming at all.
CHAPTER VII
A SUNDAY MORNING
The Barons were the kind of family that have just one morning newspaper left at their door on Sunday, and who believe that it contains everything that ought to concern them in any way—that whatever is published in any other newspaper is to be regarded with scepticism, or lightly discredited.
Yet on this particular Sunday morning Victor Baron arose early and intercepted the paper-carrier, and amazed that industrious youth by buying a copy of every journal he carried.
With this not inconsiderable burden under his arm he betook himself to the library and began an eager search for certain information.
He scanned all the advertising columns systematically, and then turned to the news departments.
A great heap of discarded “sections” grew about him as he progressed, and little by little a look of troubled anticipation vanished from his eyes. The last section of the last paper was cast away with an air of triumph.