“Why, I am all these things; isn’t it so, Mary?” cried Mrs. Garden, in childish glee.
“And little toy-mother besides! Come along, little porcelain lady, and get rested,” said Jane, putting her arm around her mother’s willowy waist and drawing her along.
“Jane found the word, Florimel; Jane always does!” cried Mary. “Our mother is just that, a little porcelain lady! I’ve been trying to think ever since she came what it was that she made me want to say, and it’s Austin Dobson’s line: ‘You’re just a porcelain trifle, belle Marquise.’”
“Don’t know it,” said Florimel, too preoccupied to be interested in poetical labels and their suitability. “Can’t you come and see, once more, if all my costumes are right, Mary?”
“I have a few last stitches to take on my Florence Nightingale dress; a red cross to sew on, and the cap isn’t right. I’ll do it in your room and look yours over at the same time, though we have made sure of yours over and over, Mellie,” said patient Mary.
To do Florimel justice she usually aroused to see Mary’s readiness to serve when her hands were more than full. She did so now. Throwing her arms around her in a hug that was more expressive than considerate, she cried:
“You dear old Mary-Job, you! Why don’t you say: ‘Get out with you, you selfish little black gypsy! I’ve got enough to do to attend to myself. Besides, you’ve been attended to! And, besideser, nobody will look at a snip like you when Jane and I are around!’ But no! You tell me you’ll ‘look me over again’ while you sew your own things—at the eleventh hour! But you won’t; I’ll ask Anne. Only she wouldn’t know! I’ll get Jane—if I can. I’m always vowing I won’t torment you, Molly darling, but you’re so unselfish you spoil me!”
“What nonsense, Mel! As if I didn’t just love to fuss over you! Come along,” Mary insisted, and, in spite of her protests, Florimel was only too glad to go with her. The Garden of Dreams was to begin at half-past eight; now, in August, the dusk was deep enough at that hour to allow effectual lighting of the myriad lanterns which everywhere were to illumine the old garden.
The spectators—that was not the word for them, either! Those who had purchased tickets allowing them to take part in the game of the evening came, for the most part, early.
Mrs. Moulton proved to be far more useful in her own proper—exceedingly proper—person than she would have been could she have been persuaded to appear in costume in the Cinderella group. The players had but the cloudiest notion of what was expected of them. Mrs. Moulton, acting as hostess, or a reception committee of one, supplemented the boys who gave out pads and pencils. She explained that the players were expected to set down the names of the characters whom, later on, they would meet wandering in the garden, each name opposite the number on the pad corresponding to the number which would be conspicuously worn by the actor; that they had the privilege of asking questions from the actors, intended to draw forth clues to their impersonations, questions which the actors were obliged, by the rules of the game, to answer, but only if they were capable of being answered indirectly. For instance, if one met a girl with a crook one would not be permitted to say point blank: “Are you little Bo-peep?” compelling the bereft shepherdess to answer: “Yes.”