Her happy laugh took the sting out of the words.
"But that reminds me—about my frock...? I've not a single thing to wear."
"And what about your white muslin?" An anxious look crept into Jill's eyes at the note in Mrs. Uniacke's voice.
"Oh—Mother—I can't ... not to Judy's party! And it's so short—up to my knees." She sighed. "I wish I'd stop growing. I let it down, with a false hem, you remember—when Aunt Elizabeth came here?"
"It will have to do." Unconsciously, her mother glanced across the room to the locked drawer where the cheque lay, signed and payable to Stephen.
Jill drew away slightly. She clasped her hands round her knees, with a sombre face, staring down at her mended shoes and a darn in her stocking.
"Then I can't go." Her voice was hard. "I won't wear that old frock. It's so tight over the chest I can hardly breathe." She bit her lips.
Mrs. Uniacke, watching her, wavered. "You could make a fichu, couldn't you? I could find you a piece of lace, perhaps—and add a frill?"
Jill scowled.
"Sounds like an early Victorian picture." She rose to her feet. "With a crinoline and black mittens—thanks, awfully. I'll tell Judy the party's off."