“I should look like a death’s head at a feast, indeed! Nonsense, Mab! I shall wear my red and white foulard.”
“The one I sent you out two years ago? Oh, it will be too dreadful! Sleeves and everything have altered since then. Besides, every one will know it.”
“What does that signify? It is quite fresh, and suits me very well. No one will remember it—not even Dick.”
But in this Georgia was mistaken. When she appeared the next morning, her husband looked suspiciously from her to Mabel.
“Didn’t you wear that dress last year, Georgie? I thought you were going to get a new one. Why don’t you have something floppy and frilly, like Mab?”
“Mab is a perfect dream,” said Georgia. “No amount of trains or fichus could make me look like her. You are very ungrateful, Dick. Who ever heard of a man’s quarrelling with his wife before for saving him a dressmaker’s bill?”
“I’ve a good mind to telegraph home at once,” grumbled Dick.
“But what good would that be for to-day? Never mind. I’ll get something terribly elaborate for next Christmas.”
“Oh, Georgie, how good of you not to give me away!” murmured Mabel, as Dick went out, grumbling, to see whether the dog-cart was ready. “But I can’t help being glad you didn’t take this gown. I don’t think I could have given it up.”