Joy ripped and handed with tremulously eager hands, while Phyllis swiftly cut away the sleeves of the green dress and slashed a décolletage, and draped the net over it and pinned on the girdle.
"Try if you can get into that without being scratched," she invited, lifting the frock gingerly off Dora and dropping it over Joy. Then she wheeled her around to where she could see her reflection in the tall pier-glass between the windows.
"Of course, that's rough," she told her; "but what do you think of it, generally? Are there any changes you want?"
"Oh, not one!" Joy replied ecstatically, regarding the slim little green and silver figure in the glass.
"It needs to be shorter," meditated Phyllis aloud, and fell to pinning it up to the proper shortness.
Joy continued to look at it rapturously. It had been a straight, long gown, and all Phyllis had needed to do was to drape it with the net ripped from the other dress and shorten and cut it into fashionableness. It was charming—springlike and becoming, and, best of all, strictly up to date!
"Don't you think you'll feel equal to being the feature of the reception in that?" demanded Phyllis. "I certainly should in your place.... That is, if you have silver slippers."
"I have, and I think I do," said Joy gravely.
"Then I'll hand this over to Viola to put the finishing stitches in. Look out the window—do you see anything familiar coming up the path?"
Joy, in her pinned finery, looked, then snatched her clothes from the sofa, where they lay in state, and ran upstairs. John was coming along the path, and she didn't want him to know about her frock till it was all done.