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.

“It’s scandalous!” she murmured to her gay, young heart, “an awful waste of good money, but for the first time, I see how women can get clothes-mad.”

She devoted the hour and a half before dinner to locating an artistic dressmaker and putting herself in her hands.

The result was both startling and exciting.  The first gown to come home was a dull, golden-brown velvet thing so soft and clinging and individual that it put its wearer into quite a flutter.  She “did” and undid her hair, and, in the process, discovered that if she pulled the “sides” loose there was a tendency to curl and the effect was distinctly charming—­with the strange gown, of course!  Then, marshalling all her courage, she trailed down to the library and thanked heaven when she found the room empty.  It would be easier to occupy the stage than to make a late entrance when the audience was in position.  So Lynda sat down, tried to read, but was so nervous that her eyes shone and her cheeks were rosy.

Brace and Conning came in together.  “Look who’s here!” was Kendall’s brotherly greeting.  “Gee!  Con, look at our lady friend!” He held his sister off at arms’ length and commented upon her “points.”

“I didn’t know your hair curled, Lyn.”

“I didn’t, myself, until this afternoon.  You see,” she trembled a bit, “now that I do not have to go in the subway to business there’s no reason for excluding—­this sort of thing” (she touched the pretty gown), “and once you let yourself go, you do not know where you will land.  Curls go with these frills; slippers, too—­look!”

Then she glanced up at Conning.

“Do you think I’m very—­frivolous?” she asked.

“I never knew”—­he was gazing seriously at her—­“how handsome you are, Lyn.  Wear that gown morning, noon and night; it’s stunning.”