It did not appear to occur to Kate, however, that personal adornment would be desirable, and it took the united efforts of Marna and Mary to persuade her that a new frock or two might be needed.  Kate had a way of avoiding shabbiness, but of late her interest in decoration had been anything but keen.  However, she ventured now on a rather beguiling dress for evening—­a Japanese crepe which a returned missionary sold her for something more than a song.  Dr. von Shierbrand said it was the color of rust, but Marna affirmed that it had the hue of copper—­copper that was not too bright.  It was embroidered gloriously with chrysanthemums, and she had great pleasure in it.  Mary Morrison drew from her rainbow collection a scarf which accentuated the charm of the frock, and when Kate had contrived a monk’s cape of brown, she was ready for possible entertainments—­panoplied for sentiment.  She would make no further concessions.  Her practical street clothes and her home-made frocks of white linen, with which she made herself dainty for dinner at Mrs. Dennison’s, had to serve her.

“I’m so poor,” she said to Marna, “that I feel like apologizing for my inefficiency.  I’m getting something now for my talks at the clubs, and I’m paid for my writing, too.  Now that it’s begun to be published, I ought to be opulent presently.”

“You’re no poorer than we,” Marna said.  “But of course there are two of us to be poor together; and that makes it more interesting.”

“Love doesn’t seem to be flying out of your window,” smiled Kate.

“We’ve bars on the windows,” laughed Marna.  “Some former occupant of the flat put them on to keep the babies from dashing their brains out on the pavement below, and we haven’t taken them off.”  She blushed.  “No,” responded Kate with a moue; “what was the use?”

* * * * *

Unfortunately McCrea, the much-expected, had not made it quite plain when he was to land in New York.  To be sure, Kate might have consulted the steamer arrivals, but she forgot to do that.  So it happened that when a wire came from Ray saying that he would be in Chicago on a certain Saturday night in mid-May, Kate found herself under compulsion to march in a suffrage procession.

David Fulham thought the circumstance uproariously funny, and he told them about it at the Caravansary.  They made rather an annoying jest of it, but Kate held to her promise.

“It’s an historic event to my mind,” she said with all the dignity she could summon.  “I wouldn’t excuse myself if I could.  And I can’t.  I’ve promised to march at the head of a division.  We hope there’ll be twenty thousand of us.”