"Sit down," I says, "I want to ask you something."
So then I told her how her wardrobe door had happened to swing open, and what we wanted to do.
"—we don't see any too many pretty things here in the village," I said, "and I'd kind of like to do it, even if we didn't make a cent of money out of it for the park."
She didn't say anything—she just sat with her head turned away from me, looking down the street.
"—us ladies," I said, "we don't dress very much. We can't. We've all had a hard time to get together just what we've had to have. But we all like pretty things. I s'pose most all of us used to think we were going to have them, and these things of yours kind of make me think of the way I use' to think, when I was a girl, I'd have things some day. Of course now I know it don't make a mite of difference whether anybody ever had them or not—there's other things and more of them. But still, now and then you kind of hanker. You kind of hanker," I told her.
Still she didn't say anything. I thought mebbe I'd offended her.
"We wouldn't touch them, you know," I said. "We'd only just come and look. But if you'd mind it any—"
Then she looked up at me, and I saw that her eyes were brimming over with tears.
"Mind!" she said. "Why, no—no! If you can really use those things of mine. But they're not nice things, you know."
"Well," I says, "I dunno as us ladies would know that. But you do love light things when you've had to go around dressed dark, either 'count of economy or 'count of being afraid of getting talked about. Or both."