I have never given you
anything, and if we are to be pals you mustn't be so proud. Can you get
a dress made in three days,--a black dress?"
"Yes," she said. "But black! I shall look a dowdy."
"No."
"Oh, but I shall," she murmured, dismally. "Colours suits me best. You
see I'm thin now; not as I was when I--well, before I started. Ah, I
looked different then, I did. I don't want to be a scarecrow and make
you ashamed of me."
Julian longed to tell her that it was the rouge, the feathers, the
scarlet skirt, the effusive bugles, that made a scarecrow of her. But he
had a rough diplomacy that taught him to refrain. He stuck to his point,
however.
"I shall give you a black dress and hat--"
"Oh, my hat's all right now," she interposed. "Them feathers is
beautiful."
"Splendid; but I'll give you a hat to match the dress, and a feather boa,
and black suede gloves."
"But, dearie, I shall be a trottin' funeral, that I shall," she
expostulated, divided between excitement and perplexity.
"No; you'll look splendid. And Cuckoo--"
He hesitated, aware that he was treading on the divine quicksand of
woman's prejudices.
"Cuckoo, I want you to make a little experiment for my sake."
"Whatever is it, dearie?"
"Just on that one night take--take all that off.
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