FINE FEATHERS
Betty Gordon had always, foolishly perhaps, associated courtesy and
good-breeding with beautiful clothes. This strange girl, who could speak
so on such slight provocation (none at all, to be exact) wore a handsome
suit, and if her jewelry was too conspicuous it had the merit of being
genuine. Betty herself had a lively temper, but she was altogether free
from snappishness and when she "blew up" the cause was sure to be
unmistakable and significant.
Bob jumped when the girl fired her question at him. There had been
nothing in his limited experience with girls to prepare him for such an
outburst. Betty half expected him to acquiesce and leave the stranger in
possession of his seat, but to her surprise he simply turned on his heel
and walked away. Not, however, before Betty had seen something bordering
on contempt in his eyes.
"I'd hate to have Bob look at me like that," she thought. "It wasn't as
if he didn't like her, or was mad at her--what is it I am trying to
say? Bob looked as if--as if--Oh, bother, I know what I mean, but I
can't say it."
The little spitfire in the seat beside her wriggled uneasily as if she,
too, were not as comfortable as she would pretend. Bob's silent reception
of her discourtesy had infuriated her, and she knew better than Betty
where she stood in the boy's estimation. She had instantly forfeited his
respect and probably his admiration forever.
In a few minutes Bob was back, and with him the conductor.
"Young lady, you're in the wrong seat," that official announced in a tone
that admitted of no trifling. "You were in eighteen in the other car and
I had to move you to twenty-three in here. Just follow me, please."
He reached in and took one of the suitcases, and Bob matter-of-factly
took the other two. The girl opened her mouth, glanced at the conductor,
and thought better of whatever she was going to say. Meekly she followed
him to another section on the other side of the car and found herself
compelled to share a seat with a severe-looking gray-haired woman,
evidently a sufferer from hay fever, as she sneezed incessantly.
Bob dropped down in his old place and shot a quizzical look at Betty.
"Flame City may be tough," he observed, "and I'd be the last one to claim
that it possessed one grain of culture; but at that, I can't remember
having a pitched battle with a girl during my care-free existence there."
"She's used to having her own way," said Betty, with a laudable ambition
to be charitable, an intention which she inadvertently destroyed by
adding vigorously: "She'd get that knocked out of her if she lived West a
little while."
"Guess the East can be trusted to smooth her down," commented Bob grimly.
"Unless she's planning to live in seclusion, she won't get far in peace
or happiness unless she behaves a bit more like a human being."
The girl was more or less in evidence during the rest of the trip and
incurred the cordial enmity of every woman in the car by the coolness
with which she appropriated the dressing room in the morning and curled
her hair and made an elaborate toilet in perfect indifference to the
other feminine travelers who were shut out till she had the last hairpin
adjusted to her satisfaction.
She was met at the Chicago terminal by a party of gay friends who whisked
her off in a palatial car, and Bob and Betty who, acting on Mr. Gordon's
advice, spent their two-hour wait between trains driving along the Lake
Shore Drive, forgot her completely.
But first Betty fell victim to the charms of a hat displayed in a smart
little millinery shop, and had an argument with Bob in which she came
off victor.
"Oh, Bob, what a darling hat!" she had exclaimed, drawing him over to the
window as they turned down the first street from the station. "I must
have it; I want to look nice when I meet the girls in Washington."
"You look nice now," declared Bob sturdily. "But if you want to buy it,
go ahead," he encouraged her. "Ask 'em how much it is, though," he added,
with a sudden recollection of the fabulous prices said to be charged for
a yard of ribbon and a bit of lace.
The hat in question was a soft brown beaver that rolled slightly away
from the face and boasted as trimming a single scarlet quill. It was
undeniably becoming, and Bob gave it his unqualified approval.
"And you will want a veil?" insinuated the clever young French
saleswoman. "See--it is charming!"
She threw over the hat a cobwebby pattern of brown silk net embroidered
heavily with chenille dots and deftly draped it back from Betty's
glowing face.
"You don't want a veil!" said Bob bluntly.
Now the mirror told Betty that the veil looked very well indeed, and made
her, she was sure of it, prettier. Betty was a good traveler and the
journey had not tired her. The excitement and pleasure of choosing a new
hat had brought a flush to her cheeks, and the shining brown eyes that
gazed back at her from the glass assured her that a veil was something
greatly to be desired.
"You don't want it," repeated Bob. "You're only thirteen and you'll look
silly. Do you want to dress like that girl on the train?"
If Bob had stopped to think he would have realized that his remarks were
not exactly tactful. Especially the reference to Betty's age, just when
she fancied that she looked very grown up indeed. She was fond of
braiding her heavy thick hair and wrapping it around her head so that
there were no hair-ribbons to betray her. In Betty's experience the
border line between a young lady and a little girl was determined by the
absence or presence of hair-ribbons.
"How much is it?" she asked the saleswoman.
"Oh, but six dollars," answered that young person with a wave of one
jeweled hand as though six dollars were a mere nothing.
"I'll take it," said Betty decisively. "And I'll wear it and the hat,
too, please; you can wrap up my old one."
Bob was silent until the transaction had been completed and they were out
of the shop.
"You wait here and I'll see about getting a car to take us along the
Drive," he said then.
"You're--you're not mad at me, are you Bob?" faltered Betty, putting an
appealing hand on his arm. "I haven't had any fun with clothes all
summer long."
"No, I'm not mad. But I think you're an awful chump," replied Bob with
his characteristic frankness.
Before the drive was over, Betty was inclined to agree with him.
The car was an open one, and while the day was warm and sunny, there was
a lively breeze blowing straight off the lake. The veil persisted in
blowing first into Betty's eyes, then into Bob's, and interfered to an
amazing degree with their enjoyment of the scenery. Finally, as they
rounded a curve and caught the full breath of the breeze, the veil blew
away entirely.
"Let it go," said Betty resignedly. "It's cost me six dollars to learn I
don't want to wear a veil."
Bob privately decided he liked her much better without the flimsy net
affair, but he wisely determined not to air his opinion. There was no
use, he told himself, in "rubbing it in."
They had lunch in a cozy little tea-room and went back to the train like
seasoned travelers. Bob was an ideal companion for such journeys, for he
never lost his head and never missed connections, while nervous haste was
unknown to him.
"Won't I be glad to see the Littells!" exclaimed Betty, watching the
porter make up their berths.
"So shall I," agreed Bob. "Did you ever know such hospitable people,
asking a whole raft of us to spend the week at Fairfields? How many did
Bobby write would be there?"
"Let's see," said Betty, checking off on her fingers. "There'll be Bobby
and Louise, of course; and Esther who is too young to go away to school,
but who will want to do everything we do; Libbie Littell and another
Vermont girl we don't know--Frances Martin; you and I; and the five boys
Mr. Littell wrote you about--the Tucker twins, Timothy Derby, Sydney
Cooke and Winifred Marion Brown. Twelve of us! Won't it be fun! I do wish
the Guerin girls could be there, but we'll see them at the school."
"I'd like to see that Winifred Marion chap," declared Bob. "A boy with a
girl's name has his troubles cut out for him, I should say."
"Lots of 'em have girls' names--in history," contributed Betty absently.
"What time do we get into Washington, Bob?"
"Around five, probably six p.m., for we're likely to be a bit late,"
replied Bob. "Let's go to bed now, Betty, and get an early start in
the morning."
The day spent on the train was uneventful, and, contrary to Bob's
expectations, they were on time at every station. Betty's heart beat
faster as the hands of her little wrist watch pointed to 5:45 and the
passengers began to gather up their wraps. The porter came through and
brushed them thoroughly and Betty adjusted her new hat carefully.
The long train slid into the Union Station. With what different
emotions both Bob and Betty had seen the beautiful, brilliantly lighted
building on the occasion of their first trip to Washington! Then each
had been without a friend in the great city, and now they were to be
welcomed by a host.
Betty's cheeks flushed rose-red, but her lovely eyes filled with a sudden
rush of tears.
"I'm so happy!" she whispered to the bewildered Bob.
"Want my handkerchief?" he asked anxiously, at which Betty tried
not to laugh.