And then something happened. It was so subtle that Lynda Kendall, least
of all, realized the true significance.
Once in the early days of her secured self-support, William Truedale had
said to her:
"You give too much attention, girl, to your tailor and too little to
your dressmaker."
Lynda had laughingly called her friend frivolous and defended her
wardrobe.
"One cannot doll up for business, Uncle William."
"Is business your whole life, Lynda? If so you had better reform it. If
women are going to pattern their lives after men's they must go the
whole way. A sensible man recognizes the need of shutting the office
door sometimes and putting on his dress suit."
"Well, but Uncle William, what is the matter with this perfectly built
suit? I always slip a fresh blouse on when I am off duty. I hate to be
always changing."
"If you had a mother, Lynda, she would make you see what I mean. An old
fungus like me cannot be expected to command respect from such an
up-to-date humbug as you!"
They had laughed it off and Lynda had, once or twice, donned a house
gown to please her critical friend, but eventually had slipped back into
suits and blouses.
All of a sudden one day--it was nearing holiday time--she left her
workroom at midday and, almost shamefacedly, "went shopping." As the
fever got into her blood she became reckless, and by five o'clock had
bought and ordered home more delicate and exquisite finery than she had
ever owned in all her life before.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171