The upper part of his body was next concealed from view by a garment so peculiar that its description becomes difficult.  In 1886, Mrs. Schofield, then unmarried, had worn at her “coming-out party” a dress of vivid salmon silk which had been remodelled after her marriage to accord with various epochs of fashion until a final, unskilful campaign at a dye-house had left it in a condition certain to attract much attention to the wearer.  Mrs. Schofield had considered giving it to Della, the cook; but had decided not to do so, because you never could tell how Della was going to take things, and cooks were scarce.

It may have been the word “medieval” (in Mrs. Lora Rewbush’s rich phrase) which had inspired the idea for a last conspicuous usefulness; at all events, the bodice of that once salmon dress, somewhat modified and moderated, now took a position, for its farewell appearance in society, upon the back, breast, and arms of the Child Sir Lancelot.

The area thus costumed ceased at the waist, leaving a Jaeger-like and unmedieval gap thence to the tops of the stockings.  The inventive genius of woman triumphantly bridged it, but in a manner which imposes upon history almost insuperable delicacies of narration.  Penrod’s father was an old-fashioned man:  the twentieth century had failed to shake his faith in red flannel for cold weather; and it was while Mrs. Schofield was putting away her husband’s winter underwear that she perceived how hopelessly one of the elder specimens had dwindled; and simultaneously she received the inspiration which resulted in a pair of trunks for the Child Sir Lancelot, and added an earnest bit of colour, as well as a genuine touch of the Middle Ages, to his costume.  Reversed, fore to aft, with the greater part of the legs cut off, and strips of silver braid covering the seams, this garment, she felt, was not traceable to its original source.

When it had been placed upon Penrod, the stockings were attached to it by a system of safety-pins, not very perceptible at a distance.  Next, after being severely warned against stooping, Penrod got his feet into the slippers he wore to dancing-school—­“patent-leather pumps” now decorated with large pink rosettes.

“If I can’t stoop,” he began, smolderingly, “I’d like to know how’m I goin’ to kneel in the pag——­”

“You must manage!” This, uttered through pins, was evidently thought to be sufficient.

They fastened some ruching about his slender neck, pinned ribbons at random all over him, and then Margaret thickly powdered his hair.

“Oh, yes, that’s all right,” she said, replying to a question put by her mother.  “They always powdered their hair in Colonial times.”

“It doesn’t seem right to me—­exactly,” objected Mrs. Schofield, gently.  “Sir Lancelot must have been ever so long before Colonial times.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Margaret reassured her.  “Nobody’ll know the difference—­Mrs. Lora Rewbush least of all.  I don’t think she knows a thing about it, though, of course, she does write splendidly and the words of the pageant are just beautiful.  Stand still, Penrod!” (The author of “Harold Ramorez” had moved convulsively.) “Besides, powdered hair’s always becoming.  Look at him.  You’d hardly know it was Penrod!”