They were not many in number, but they entered the balance, dragged down the scales of her decision.

The hat she was wearing--it was not a best hat--but some few evenings before, she had retrimmed it; there was matter for consideration in that.
The frame was a good one.

It could be trimmed again and again, so long as it met with those requirements which in Sally's mind were governed by a vogue of fashion that she followed reverently, though always, perhaps, some few paces in the rear.

A severe wetting might so alter the shape of that frame as to make it for ever unwearable.
Her coat was serge--short, ending at the waist; the feather boa that clung round her neck, they would inevitably suffer without protection.

For the moment she felt angry with herself.