Theodosia. "You can say 'no,' now," she said, with a difficult little
smile.

Miss Theodosia had been, in a way, counting ten herself. She had had
time to remember her very strict injunctions to those to whom she
entrusted her beloved white gowns--to pull out the lace with careful
fingers, not to iron it; to iron embroidered portions over many
thicknesses of flannel, and never, never, never on the right side; to
starch the dresses just enough and not too much. All these thoughts
flashed through her mind while Stefana counted ten. But it was without
accompaniment of injunctions that Miss Theodosia answered on that
wistful little stroke of ten. In her soul she felt the futility of
injunctions.

"Yes," answered Miss Theodosia.

Stefana whirled, at the risk of Elihu Launcelot.

"Oh--oh, what? You mean I can do you up, honest? Starch you, and iron
you, too--of course, I could wash you. Oh, if I could drop Elly Precious
I'd get right up and dance!"

"Give Elly Precious to me, and go ahead, my dear," said the White Lady
with a smile.

But Stefana shook her head. She was covertly studying the white dress
once more. It was very white--she could detect no promising spots or
creases, and she drew a sigh even in the midst of her rejoicing. If a
person only sat on porches, in chairs, how often did white dresses need
doing up? Miss Theodosia interpreted the sigh and look.