ar!" said Mr. Stafford aghast. He took off his spectacles
to polish them, and then as he put them on again, "If it's for
that Appleton boy I really can't allow it. There's nothing
whatever wrong with him but laziness"

"It isn't for Appleton. It's for me myself." Isabel sat up
straight, a little flushed. "I'm growing up. Isn't it a
nuisance? I want a new dress! I did think I could carry on till
the winter, but I can't. Could you let me have enough to buy one
ready-made? Chapman's have one in their window that would fit me
pretty well. It's rather dear, but somehow when I make my own
they never come right. And Rowsley says I look like a scarecrow,
and even Val's been telling me to put my hair up!"

"Put your hair up, my child? Why, how old are you? I don't like
little girls to be in a hurry to turn into big ones"

"I'm not a little girl," said Isabel shortly. "I'm nineteen."

"Nineteen? no, surely not!"

"Twenty next December."

"Dear me!" said Mr. Stafford, quite overcome. "How time flies!"
He set her down from his knee and went to his cash box. "If Val
tells you to put your hair up, no doubt you had better do it." He
paused. "I don't know whether Val said you ought to have a new
frock, though? I can't bear spending money on fripperies when
even in our own parish so many people--" Some glimmering
perception reached him of the repressed anguish in Isabel's eyes.
"But of course you must have what you need. How much is it?"

"1. 11. 6."

"Oh, my dear! That seems a great deal."

"It isn't really much for a best dress," said poor Isabel.

"But you mustn't be extravagant, darling," said Mr. Stafford
tenderly. "I see other girls running about in little cotton
dresses or bits of muslin or what not that look very nice--much
nicer on a young girl than 'silksand fine array.' Last time
Yvonne came to tea she wore a little frock as simple as a
child's"

"She did," said Isabel. "She picked it up in a French sale. It
was very cheap--only 275 francs."

"Eleven pounds!" Mr. Stafford held up his hands. "My dear, are
you sure?"

"Quite," said Isabel. Mr. Stafford sighed. "I must speak to
Yvonne. 'How hardly shall they...'" He took a note out of his
cash box. "Can't you make that do--?" he was beginning when a
qualm of compunction came upon him. After all it was a long time
since he had given Isabel any money for herself, and there must
be many little odds and ends about a young girl's clothing t