I have
several of them. There, you are quite as I would have you,--as far as your
head goes."
"Not as far as the rest of me goes, I'm afraid," said Mary, laughing in
spite of herself, and lured from sadness.
"I wish you'd let me make the rest of you to match," said Valerie. "I've
always loved dressing people up. I loved dressing my dolls when I was a
child. That stiff shirt doesn't go with your head."
"No, it doesn't. I really don't see," said Mary tentatively, "why one
shouldn't regard dressing as a form of art; I mean, of course, as long as
one keeps it in its proper place, as it were."
"To get it in its proper place is to dress well, don't you think. I found
such a pretty lawn dress of mine in a trunkful of things put away here;
it's a little too juvenile for me, now, and, besides, I'm in mourning. May
I put you into it?"
"But I should feel so odd, so frivolous. I'm such a staid, solemn person."
"But the dress is staid, too,--a dear little austerity of a dress;--it's
just as much you as that way of doing your hair is. Don't imagine that I
would commit such a solecism as to dress you frivolously. Look; will you
put this on at once,--to please me?"
She had drawn the delicate thing, all falls and plaitings of palest blue,
from a closet, and, shaking it out, looked up with quite serious eyes
of supplication. It was impossible not to yield. Laughing, frightened,
charmed, Mary allowed Mrs. Upton to dress her, and then surveyed herself
in the long mirror with astonishment.
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