While I sat like a lotos-eater, forgetful of home and butter-making, a servant brought in a parcel and a note. Mrs. Rayne tossed the note to me while she unfolded a roll of gray silk.
DEAR GUINEVERE: I send with this a bit of silk that old Fut'ali insisted on giving to me this morning. It is that horrid gray color which we both detest. I know you will never wear it, and you had better give it to Miss Blake to make a toga for her first appearance in the women's Senate.
LANCELOT.
"With all my heart!" said Mrs. Rayne as I gave back the note. "You will please us both far more than you can please yourself by wearing the dress with a thought of us. I wonder why Mr. Rayne calls me 'Guinevere'? But he has a new name for me every day, because he does not like my own."
"What is it?"
"Waitstill. Did you ever hear it?"
"Never but once," I said with a sudden tightness in my throat. I could scarcely speak my thanks for the dress.
"I should never wear it," said Mrs. Rayne: "the color is associated with a very painful part of my life."
"Do you suppose water would spot it?" asked Rhoda, who is of a practical turn of mind.
"Take a bit and try it."