"Your sister wrote nothing of this."
"But she told me. She said she wanted you to meet some of our friends. Don't be afraid of them, Jean. You're as clever as any of them, while in looks not a woman Julie knows can hold a candle to you."
"But their clothes! Don't you see it's impossible? I've absolutely nothing to wear."
The man flicked this thistle-down airily away.
"Dowds, half of 'em, Julie's crowd," he declared. "You don't need anything elaborate. Just wear some simple gown that doesn't hide your neck. Simple things tell."
"And cost," she added, smiling ruefully at his nebulous solution. "I have never owned a dinner-gown in my life."
Atwood had an inspiration.
"Why, the studio is full of them," he cried.
"Your sister's—every one. Could I wear one of her dresses to her dinner?"
"Hardly. What inferior intellects men have! But is there any objection to your wearing one of my gowns? None of the properties fit the scheme of illustrations I've planned for that last novel, and I've decided to have one or two things made. Now, if you'll choose the material and bother with the fittings—"