I could stand an awful fuss being made over me, without being
spoiled any."
Three weeks later Effie was back at the store. Her skirt
didn't fit in the back, and the little hollow places in her cheeks
did not take the customary dash of rouge as well as when they had
been plumper. She held a little impromptu reception that extended
down as far as the lingeries and up as far as the rugs. The old
sparkle came back to Effie's eye. The old assurance and vigor
seemed to return. By the time that Miss Weinstein, of the French
lingeries, arrived, breathless, to greet her Effie was herself
again.
"Well, if you're not a sight for sore eyes, dearie," exclaimed
Miss Weinstein. "My goodness, how grand and thin you are! I'd be
willing to take a course in typhoid myself, if I thought I could
lose twenty-five pounds."
"I haven't a rag that fits me," Effie announced proudly.
Miss Weinstein lowered her voice discreetly. "Dearie, can you
come down to my department for a minute? We're going to have a
sale on imported lawnjerie blouses, slightly soiled, from nine to
eleven to-morrow. There's one you positively must see.
Hand-embroidered, Irish motifs, and eyeleted from soup to nuts, and
only eight-fifty."
"I've got a fine chance of buying hand-made waists, no matter
how slightly soiled," Effie made answer, "with a doctor and nurse's
bill as long as your arm.
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