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Updated: May 7, 2025
"Can we dress up, Cousin Jack?" asked Marjorie. "Sure, child; wear your best bib and tucker, if you like, but I like you better in your play-clothes." "I don't mean that. I mean costumes." "Midget is great for dressing up," explained King. "She always wants some cheesecloth wobbed around her, and veils and feathers on her head." "Oh, I see! Why, yes, I rather guess we can dress up."
But he continued to look at her with unchanged, laughing, friendly blue eyes, and went on: "By the way, his mother asked me to apologize for HIS extraordinary appearance. I suppose neither of you would recognize the other in any dress but the one each had on that day. He doesn't always dress that way. His mother has been ill. He wore out his play-clothes.
On that occasion he sat upright in a chair between his stepmother and his tutor, looking intently out of very bright blue eyes at the two gipsy-brown little girls in their single-garment linen play-clothes, swinging their tanned bare legs and feet from the railing of the porch.
There, sitting on the front steps of the Main Building, waiting for her father, she had encountered the wife of the professor of European History with her beautiful young-lady sister from New York and her two daughters, exquisite little girls in white serge, whose tailored, immaculate perfection made Sylvia's heart heavy with a sense of the plebeian inelegance of her own Saturday-morning play-clothes.
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