she had wanted to wear her second best dress, but Aunt Janet had
decreed that her school clothes were good enough to go "traipsing
about in the dust." Then the Story Girl arrived, arrayed not in
any second best but in her very best dress and hat, which her
father had sent her from Paris--a dress of soft, crimson silk,
and a white leghorn hat encircled by flame-red poppies. Neither
Felicity nor Cecily could have worn it; but it became the Story
Girl perfectly. In it she was a thing of fire and laughter and
glow, as if the singular charm of her temperament were visible
and tangible in its vivid colouring and silken texture.

"I shouldn't think you'd put on your best clothes to go begging
for the library in," said Felicity cuttingly.

"Aunt Olivia says that when you are going to have an important
interview with a man you ought to look your very best," said the
Story Girl, giving her skirt a lustrous swirl and enjoying the
effect.

"Aunt Olivia spoils you," said Felicity.

"She doesn't either, Felicity King! Aunt Olivia is just sweet.
She kisses me good-night every night, and your mother NEVER
kisses you."

"My mother doesn't make kisses so common," retorted Felicity.
"But she gives us pie for dinner every day."

"So does Aunt Olivia."