“The taste of love lasts longer than any kind of cake,” answered Roxanne with a comforted laugh.  “And truly, Phyllis, it has been a comfort to tell you all about it.  It is hard to have to skimp like I do and it makes a girl nervous to have to keep looking down at her feet to be sure that a toe isn’t poking out of the shoe since the last time she looked, also to know that the last inch of hem is let out of her dress and her legs are growing while she sleeps.  I can take Douglass’s old shirts and make shirt waists for me and aprons of the scraps for Lovey, and lots of things for Lovey out of his old trousers, only he says that he has to wear them himself until he feels ashamed of his appearance whenever he meets anybody; but my own skirts are what seem the last straw, or rather the bricks that I haven’t any straw to make.  The last one was made out of some dead Somebody Byrd’s black cashmere shawl, I don’t know whose, but I can’t see the next even in the dim future.”

“I heard Belle Kirby say that your white linen is the most stylish dress in Byrdville, and I agreed with her,” I said, with the emphasis that truth always makes possible.  “In fact, you always look different from other people, Roxanne—­like—­like the town was named for you—­as it is.”

“Oh, that linen dress is really a wonder, considering,” laughed Roxanne with pleased delight.  “It is made out of a linen sheet that came off one of my great-grandmother’s looms, and I found it in an old trunk.  Miss Prissy embroidered it and helped me make it and a suit for Lovey and a shirt for Douglass out of the other one of the pair.  Uncle Pompey helps me wash and iron all three of them every Saturday.  He has a necktie off of them, too, and Sunday we all go to church ’of a piece’, he calls it.  Douglass says, when the Emperor of Germany invites the great inventor and his family to come to court to meet the royal family we are all going to wear our parts of the family sheets, if only folded in our pockets like handkerchiefs.  Sometimes in the middle of the night, when something goes right in the shop, Douglass comes in and wakes me up.  I dress up in a blanket for a court dress, and we wake up Lovey and play our royal visit.  Do you blame me for not minding washing and ironing and cooking and toe-poking or dress-shrinking with a brother who is an idol like that?”

“No, Roxanne, I don’t blame you.  He—­er—­Mr. Douglass is worth it all,” I answered with controlled emotion.  I thereupon adopted the word “Idol” to use for him in private between you and me, good Louise.  He deserves it.  “He is so perfectly grand that I step on my own toes whenever I see from a long way off that I must meet him on the street,” I continued.  “I turn a corner rather than speak to him.  I never intend to.  The sight of him makes me so shy that it is agony.”  I didn’t in the least mind confessing such a feeling to Roxanne, because she is the “Idol’s”—­it looks nice written—­sister and will understand.