"Speaking of dresses, Miss Doane, put on that dark gray velvet that
Marcelle made you and the hat with the mauve. Oh, I wish it were
cold, so you could wear your new furs. But--well--they'll see them
all after a while. We mustn't astonish them _too_ much at first."

"Do I have to fix up so much?"

"But I want them to see how pretty you are."

Drusilla blushed like a girl.

"Pshaw, Miss Thornton, don't you know I'm past seventy years old?
You shouldn't say such things."

"Oh, but I mean it. Margaret Fairchild, who was here with her
mother, told the girls the other night at the dance that she couldn't
keep her eyes off of you, as you sat with the light on your hair, and
your pretty dress that was so half old-fashioned and half the latest
style. She said you looked as if you had just stepped out of a
picture."

"It's my clothes, I guess."

"Yes, it's partly the clothes, and that's where Marcelle is clever.
She makes the clothes suit _you_, and doesn't try to make a
fashionable middle-aged woman out of you. She spoke of your hands
too, said they looked so--so--sort of feminine as they lay on the
arms of the chair. You are clever, Miss Doane, to always sit on one
of those high-backed chairs when callers come; it makes a lovely
background."