Meantime the express train was giving occasional premonitory snorts, and
the four young ladies who had been so thoroughly discussed were in
various stages of unrest, waiting for the moment of departure. A
looker-on would have been able to come to marked conclusions concerning
the different characters of these young ladies, simply from their
manner of dress. Flossy Shipley was the one to look at first. That was a
very good description of her usual style--something to look at. She had
chosen for her traveling dress a pale, lavender cashmere, of that
delightful shade that resents a drop of water as promptly as a drop of
oil. It was trimmed with a contrasting shade of silk, and trimmed
profusely; yards of gathered trimming, headed by yards of flat pleating,
and that in turn headed by yards of folds. The dainty sack and hat, and
the four-buttoned gloves, were as faultless as to fit and as delicate in
color as the dress. In short, Miss Flossy looked as though she might be
ready for an evening concert. Moreover, she felt as if she were, or at
least she had an uncomfortable consciousness as to clothes. She kept a
nervous lookout for the lower flounce whenever the crowd of people
surged her way, and brushed vigorously at the arm of the seat she had
chosen ere she dared to rest _her_ arm on it. Evidently she had given
herself over to the martyrdom of thinking of and caring for clothes
during this journey, and I don't know whether there is a greater
martyrdom made out of a trifle than that. It was one of Flossy's
besetting sins, this arraying herself in glory, and making wrinkles in
her face in the vain attempt to keep so. Not that she was particularly
anxious to save the wear and tear, only she hated to look spotted and
wrinkled, and she could never seem to learn the simple lesson of wearing
the things best suited to the occasion.

Standing near her, toying carelessly with her traveling fan, and looking