“Can’t I wear red?” he asked, anxiously.
“Well, yes, a certain shade, but you’d have to be very particular. Why do you wish red?”
“I—I—a woman once told me I looked well in red,” he said, sheepishly.
Berty surveyed him as an indulgent mother might survey a child.
“Very well, wear red. It is a great thing to have something on that you feel at ease in. But, as I say, you must be very particular about the shade. I’ll run up-stairs and get a piece of silk, and do you try to match it,” and she darted away.
Mr. Jimson occupied the time while she was gone in walking about the room, nervously mopping his face, and staring out the window at the carriage waiting for him.
“Here it is,” exclaimed Berty, running back, “the precise shade. Now do be particular.”
“You’re real good,” he replied, gratefully, and, pocketing the scrap, he was hurrying away, when he turned back. “What time shall I come? Can’t I get here before the others?”
“Yes, do,” replied Berty, “come about half-past seven.”
“All right—thank you,” and he rushed away.