“There, admire yourself!” exclaimed Polly, thrusting a hand mirror into her sister’s grasp. “I don’t believe you ever look at your profile or the back of your head! You are so busy enacting the part of your own mother-in-law that I only wonder you don’t insist upon wearing widow’s caps. Oh! I beg your pardon—I forgot that could only be done by forfeiting Simeon! Where do you keep your shirt-waists? This one isn’t half bad; let me help you into it.”
She chose the least antiquated blouse in Deena’s wardrobe, and pinned it into place with the precision of experience; next she hooked the new skirt round the waist and held the little coat for her sister to put on.
“Where is your hat?” she demanded.
Deena fetched a plain black straw, rusty from the sun and dust of two summers, and shook her head as she tried to pinch the bows into shape.
“I shall be like a peacock turned topsy-turvy,” she laughed—“ashamed of my head instead of my feet!”
Polly took it out of her hand.
“Of course, you cannot wear that with your hair done in the new way—besides, it spoils your whole costume. I saw quite a decent hat in a shop window in the next street. I’ll get it for you!” and she was out of the room like a flash of lightning.
Deena ran to the window and caught her mercurial sister issuing from the door below.
“Stop, Polly!” she called. “I cannot afford a new hat, and I cannot accept anything more—please come back.”
Polly made a little grimace and walked steadily down the path; at the gate she condescended to remark: