“We will have to put it up in the folded fire escape fashion,” said Dorothy, “until we can drive out to a barber’s.  It is too late this afternoon.”

“Whatever will momsey say?” thought Tavia aloud.

“That you would have made a very good-looking boy,” replied Dorothy.  “I am sure I never saw a girl to whom short hair was so becoming.”

“It must look well with a five hundred-dollar note for a background.  I tell you, Doro, money covers a multitude of crimes.  I wonder if little Lily of the fire room has cooled off yet.”

“But you haven’t seen the new clothes auntie had brought us—­yes us, for she has not forgotten you.  You are well able to pay bills now, you know,” and Dorothy gave a mischievous little tug at Tavia’s elbow.  “But wait, wait till you see what you are to wear this very evening.  The box has just come up, and I will open it.”

Whereupon Dorothy pulled in from the hall door a great purple box labeled “robes.”  Tavia was on her knees beside it before Dorothy had a chance to untie the strings.  What girl does not like to see brand, new, pretty dresses come out of their original box?

Layers of tissue paper were first unwrapped, then a glow of brilliant red shown through the last covering.

“Whew!” exclaimed Tavia, “a rainbow gown, I’ll bet.  Then she gave her usual text, as Dorothy called her spontaneous rhymes: 

     “Breathes there a girl with soul so dead,
      Who never to herself has said,
      I love to wear a dress bright red!”

“And I love red better than butter, and I love butter better than ice cream—­so there!  Dorothy Dale, that dress on top I claim.”

The “bright red” was in full view now, and it was really a beautiful gown.  Not extravagantly so, but as Dorothy said “exquisitely so.”

The material was of dimity, over muslin, and tiny rows of “val.” lace formed a yoke and edgings.  A broad sash of flowered ribbon—­all in shades of red, with bows of the same in narrow width finished the shoulders.

“Yes, it is for you,” said Dorothy, “Auntie said red would suit you.”

“I have always loved it, but folks said my hair was red.”

“Indeed it never was.  And don’t you know how great dressmakers insist upon sandy haired girls wearing red?  The real red in material contrasts with hair red, so as to make the brown red browner.  There now, is a new puzzle.  When is brown red?”

“When a sassy boy calls it red,” promptly answered Tavia, remembering how she always feared the “red-head” epithet.

“Isn’t it sweet?” exclaimed Dorothy, holding the new gown up for inspection.

“Oh, a perfect love!” declared Tavia.  “I thought my Rochester creation—­ doesn’t that sound well—­simply ‘gloriotious,’ but this is beatific!”

“Like a sunset,” suggested Dorothy.  “But I must get acquainted with mine.”

Another layer of paper and a pale blue robe was extracted.