They found their apartments looking as if they had been struck by a snowstorm—a storm of red and green and yellow, and all the colours that lie between. All day the wagons of fashionable milliners and costumiers had been stopping at the door, and their contents had found their way to Alice’s room. The floors were ankle-deep in tissue paper and tape, and beds and couches and chairs were covered with boxes, in which lay wonderful symphonies of colour, half disclosed in their wrappings of gauze. In the midst of it all stood the girl, her eyes shining with excitement.
“Oh, Allan!” she cried, as they entered. “How am I ever to thank you?”
“You’re not to thank me,” Montague replied. “This is all Oliver’s doings.”
“Oliver!” exclaimed the girl, and turned to him. “How in the world could you do it?” she cried. “How will you ever get the money to pay for it all?”
“That’s my problem,” said the man, laughing. “All you have to think about is to look beautiful.”
“If I don’t,” was her reply, “it won’t be for lack of clothes. I never saw so many wonderful things in all my life as I’ve seen to-day.”
“There’s quite a show of them,” admitted Oliver.
“And Reggie Mann! It was so queer, Allan! I never went shopping with a man before. And he’s so—so matter-of-fact. You know, he bought me—everything!”
“That was what he was told to do,” said Oliver. “Did you like him?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl. “He’s queer—I never met a man like that before. But he was awfully kind; and the people just turned their stores inside out for us—half a dozen people hurrying about to wait on you at once!”