"A costume," corrected Dick, imitating Dorothy's voice. "A real tailor one—made in Bond Street!"
Mr. Graham rustled his newspaper, and Dick succumbed.
"Why, Dorothy!" Mrs. Graham was looking at her letter. "Dear me!" She ran her eyes quickly through its contents. "I'm afraid that costume won't come to-day. They've had a fire."
A Fire in Bond Street
"'Prescott's, Bond Street,'" said Mr. Graham, reading from a paragraph in the morning paper. "Here it is: 'A fire occurred yesterday afternoon in the ladies' tailoring department. The stock-room was gutted, but fortunately the assistants escaped without injury.'"
Dorothy, with a very long face, was reading over her mother's shoulder:
"In consequence of a fire in the tailoring department Messrs. Prescott beg to inform their customers that some delay will be caused in getting out this week's orders. Business will, however, be continued as usual, and it will greatly facilitate matters if ladies having costumes now in hand will repeat the order by wire or telephone to avoid mistakes."
"It's very smart of them to have got that notice here so soon," said Mr. Graham.
"Mother," said Dorothy, swallowing very hard, "do you think it is burnt? After being fitted and all!"
"It is a disappointment," said her mother kindly, "but they'll make you another."