They found their apartments looking as if they had
been struck by a snowstorm-a storm of red and green
and yellow, and all the colours that lie between.
All day the wagons of fashionable milliners and costumiers
had been stopping at the door, and their contents had
found their way to Alice’s room. The floors
were ankle-deep in tissue paper and tape, and beds
and couches and chairs were covered with boxes, in
which lay wonderful symphonies of colour, half disclosed
in their wrappings of gauze. In the midst of it
all stood the girl, her eyes shining with excitement.
“Oh, Allan!” she cried, as they entered.
“How am I ever to thank you?”
“You’re not to thank me,” Montague
replied. “This is all Oliver’s doings.”
“Oliver!” exclaimed the girl, and turned
to him. “How in the world could you do
it?” she cried. “How will you ever
get the money to pay for it all?”
“That’s my problem,” said the man,
laughing. “All you have to think about
is to look beautiful.”
“If I don’t,” was her reply, “it
won’t be for lack of clothes. I never saw
so many wonderful things in all my life as I’ve
seen to-day.”
“There’s quite a show of them,”
admitted Oliver.
“And Reggie Mann! It was so queer, Allan!
I never went shopping with a man before. And
he’s so—so matter-of-fact. You
know, he bought me—everything!”
“That was what he was told to do,” said
Oliver. “Did you like him?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl.
“He’s queer—I never met a man
like that before. But he was awfully kind; and
the people just turned their stores inside out for
us—half a dozen people hurrying about to
wait on you at once!”
“You’ll get used to such things,”
said Oliver; and then, stepping toward the bed, “Let’s
see what you got.”
“Most of the things haven’t come,”
said Alice. “The gowns all have to be fitted.—That
one is for to-night,” she added, as he lifted
up a beautiful object made of rose-coloured chiffon.
Oliver studied it, and glanced once or twice at the
girl. “I guess you can carry it,”
he said. “What sort of a cloak are you to
wear?”
“Oh, the cloak!” cried Alice. “Oliver,
I can’t believe it’s really to belong
to me. I didn’t know anyone but princesses
wore such things.”
The cloak was in Mrs. Montague’s room, and one
of the maids brought it in. It was an opera-wrap
of grey brocade, lined with unborn baby lamb—a
thing of a gorgeousness that made Montague literally
gasp for breath.
“Did you ever see anything like it in your life?”
cried Alice. “And Oliver, is it true that
I have to have gloves and shoes and stockings—and
a hat—to match every gown?”
“Of course.” said Oliver. “If
you were doing things right, you ought to have a cloak
to match each evening gown as well.”
“It seems incredible,” said the girl.
“Can it be right to spend so much money for
things to wear?”
