"But why 'of course,' if you don't wish? Whoever sent those tickets—"
"Mr. Boult sent them."
"Well, then, Mr. Boult sent them to make you happy; not unhappier."
"I know. I am really quite grateful, Mr. Gibbon. It was only those dresses. We wore them at a dance at our house—the evening before—everything. I can't think how Bessie can! But she does not feel things as I do. She never did feel like—dying—of pity—and sorrow—as I did." She lifted her cup to her lips to hide the fact that tears were rolling down her face.
Mr. Gibbon sighed heavily. He pushed his own cup away from him as a signal perhaps that for him also the tea was spoilt. "But why need you go in that particular frock, Miss Deleah?"
"I haven't another."
"The one you have on."
"This one? Oh!"
She laughed with the tears in her eyes, and looked down at her school frock—a black skirt and a white muslin "garibaldi" (the garment so called at that time being extremely like the shirt blouse, or waist, as the Americans have it, of to-day). "Oh, how funny men are!" she said. "To think I could go in the half-guinea places in such a dress!"
"It's a beautiful dress, isn't it! It seems so to me. And I don't think it matters at all what you wear, Miss Deleah."