“You’ll get used to such things,” said Oliver; and then, stepping toward the bed, “Let’s see what you got.”
“Most of the things haven’t come,” said Alice. “The gowns all have to be fitted.—That one is for to-night,” she added, as he lifted up a beautiful object made of rose-coloured chiffon.
Oliver studied it, and glanced once or twice at the girl. “I guess you can carry it,” he said. “What sort of a cloak are you to wear?”
“Oh, the cloak!” cried Alice. “Oliver, I can’t believe it’s really to belong to me. I didn’t know anyone but princesses wore such things.”
The cloak was in Mrs. Montague’s room, and one of the maids brought it in. It was an opera-wrap of grey brocade, lined with unborn baby lamb—a thing of a gorgeousness that made Montague literally gasp for breath.
“Did you ever see anything like it in your life?” cried Alice. “And Oliver, is it true that I have to have gloves and shoes and stockings—and a hat—to match every gown?”
“Of course.” said Oliver. “If you were doing things right, you ought to have a cloak to match each evening gown as well.”
“It seems incredible,” said the girl. “Can it be right to spend so much money for things to wear?”
But Oliver was not discussing questions of ethics; he was examining sets of tinted crêpe de chine lingerie, and hand-woven hose of spun silk. There were boxes upon boxes, and bureau drawers and closet shelves already filled up with hand-embroidered and lace-trimmed creations—chemises and corset-covers, night-robes of “handkerchief linen” lawn, lace handkerchiefs and veils, corsets of French coutil, dressing-jackets of pale-coloured silks, and negligées of soft batistes, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, or even with fur.
“You must have put in a full day,” he said.