"Why? What's wrong about your clothes?"
It was painful, but Letitia had to explain:
"If she 's so poor as all that—and everybody says so—I don't think it 's—it 's—quite nice, some way or other, for me to go in this dress." Her voice took on a sudden tone of decision. "I won't do it, anyway."
Her sister knew the tone, and knew that there was no use in combating the mood it indicated.
"You have the queerest notions," she said, with a resigned sigh; "but do as you like. It 's all the same, if you do go to-morrow. Only you must promise that you won't back out."
Letitia promised.
On the afternoon of the next day she stood before her glass and critically eyed her reflection. She had put on a plain tailor-made suit, which fitted her heavily molded figure with unwrinkled smoothness. A brown turban crowned her reddish hair, and the exquisite pallor of her skin was obscured by a thin veil. Letitia did not approve of herself in this modest garb. She accepted the dictum that "beauty should go beautifully." But for the mission upon which she was bound she had selected her attire with an eye to its fitness and propriety.
It was a gray afternoon, with a breath of fog
