Why, I haven't nearly spent all my allowance," I cried with kindling
enthusiasm, jumping up to pace the floor. "Tell me what I ought to have--
just exactly what is most suitable. I don't know much about teas, but I'd
like something--fine!"
Aunt's face glowed with excitement. I think she saw in imagination fifty
Helens dancing before he eyes in a kaleidoscopic assortment of dresses.
"You're right. We'll get--oh, what shall we--what shall we get that'll be
good enough for you?" she cried in a flutter. "Something simple of course,
you're so young; but--I'll tell you: We'll go right to Mrs. Edgar!"
Perhaps my own face burned, too.
"Who's she? Some one on the Avenue?"
"No; no one knows her, but--she's a marvel! It'd mean the world and all to
her to please some one sure to be noticed, like you. She's a widow; has
two children."
So to Mrs. Edgar we went. Her eyes devoured me. She is a mite of a woman,
young, white-faced, vivacious.
"For a tea?" she asked. "A--a large one?"
She spoke with forced calmness, but her hands had the artist's flutter,
the enthusiast's eagerness to be doing.
"I'll get samples," she went on; "there's not a minute to be lost; not--
one--moment! I'll work all night rather than fail her.
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