"I should say there was a little more dew than usual. Stand up and let me survey you, if perchance I may discover the cause."
Ivy rose, made a profound curtsy, and then turned slowly around, after the manner of the revolving fashion-figures in a milliner's window.
"I don't know," continued Mr. Clerron, when Ivy, after a couple of revolutions, resumed her seat. "You seem to be the same. I think it must be the frock."
"I don't wear a frock. I don't think it would improve my style of beauty, if I did. Papa wears one sometimes."
"And what kind of a frock, pray, does 'papa' wear?"
"Oh, a horrid blue thing. Comes about down to his knees. Made of some kind of woollen stuff. Horrid!"
"And what name do you give to that white thing with blue sprigs in it?"
"This?"
"Yes."
"This is a dress."