“Of course we did,” said Miss Halliday, “though we couldn’t do without Miss Stasy’s taste in anything. But do go out into the garden for a little, my dear; you’ll only make your head ache, and not be pleased with what you do in the end, when you’re feeling so.”
Stasy looked regretfully at the hat on her knee.
“I meant to make it so pretty,” she said. “And so you will, if you put it away in the meantime. There’s no hurry for it—there isn’t, really. Miss Bracy’s not leaving home till the end of the week,” said Miss Halliday.
Blanche had crossed the room to her sister, and took up the hat to look at it.
“It is pretty already,” she said, “and it is going to be quite charming, I can see. So uncommon!”
Stasy looked up with tired eyes.
“Do you really think so?” she said more cheerfully. “I am so glad, for I do want to make it very nice.”
It was an uncommon hat, even in these modern days of eccentricity without end—uncommon, but still more, perfect in taste—and in imagination Blanche already saw Adela’s piquant face and beautiful dark eyes looking their best under its shade.
“I want the roses to droop over a little on to her hair, do you see?” said Stasy. “And they will look rather sprawly.”
“They will come all right in the end, I am quite sure,” said Blanche encouragingly, as Stasy rose half reluctantly from her place.