Mrs. Brownley met them at the house and took them to their rooms herself. Mrs. Thorstad had a big pleasant room in a wing of the house given up to guest chambers and Freda’s was a small one connected with it.
“My daughters are looking forward so much to meeting you,” Mrs. Brownley said easily to Freda. “They are out just now, but when you come down for dinner they will be home. We usually dine at seven, Mrs. Thorstad. It isn’t at all necessary to dress.”
“She is nice, isn’t she?” said Freda, as the door closed after their hostess, “maybe it won’t be so bad. Anyway, all experience is good. Glad I remember that much Nietzsche. It often helps.”
Mrs. Thorstad put her trim little hat on the closet shelf and began to unpack her suit-case. Freda explored the bath.
“It’s like a movie,” she came back to say, “I feel just like the second reel when the heroine is seduced by luxury into giving herself—”
“Freda!”
“Truly I do. She always takes a look into the closet at rows of clothes and closes the door virtuously, gazes rapturously at the chaise longue all lumpy with pillows and stiffens herself. But she never can resist the look into the bath room—monogramed towels, scented soap, bath salts. I know just exactly how the poor girls feel. Certain kinds of baths are for cleanliness—others make a lady out of a sow’s ear—you know.”
“Why are you wearing that dress?” asked her mother, rousing from her nap fifteen minutes later. “I was going down in my waist and skirt.”
“Mother—you can’t. That wasn’t what she meant by not dressing. She meant not evening dress. You’ll have to put on your blue silk.”
“I wanted to save that for afternoon affairs.”