Alice was busy with herself for two hours after dinner; but a little before nine o'clock she stood in front of her long mirror, completed, bright-eyed and solemn.

Her hair, exquisitely arranged, gave all she asked of it; what artificialities in colour she had used upon her face were only bits of emphasis that made her prettiness the more distinct; and the dress, not rumpled by her mother's careful hours of work, was a white cloud of loveliness.

Finally there were two triumphant bouquets of violets, each with the stems wrapped in tin-foil shrouded by a bow of purple chiffon; and one bouquet she wore at her waist and the other she carried in her hand.
Miss Perry, called in by a rapturous mother for the free treat of a look at this radiance, insisted that Alice was a vision.

"Purely and simply a vision!" she said, meaning that no other definition whatever would satisfy her.

"I never saw anybody look a vision if she don't look one to-night," the admiring nurse declared.