They had both wondered about that room, for on this small ship everyone seemed to know everyone else, with that exception. Was he ill, perhaps, that he never came out, not even for meals? But there wasn’t time to discuss him now. “Hurry and get into your costume for the party,” directed Cynthia. “Costume? Oh yes.” Miss Mitchall was going to appreciate the small jest. “You mean my black dress.” She turned, bustling a little, to put her purse and book and scarf and sweater on the long couch beneath the porthole. “No, I don’t mean just the black dress,” stated Cynthia in what she hoped was a firm tone. “I mean your costume. Stasia Carruthers and I made one for you this afternoon. You’re going as a Green Witch. See here.” She took down the tall peaked hat, clapped it on the small gray head and turned her roommate to face the mirror. “Then the cape, like this.” She flung the long cape around the thin shoulders. “Of course we must make you up. A little powder on your nose, probably some rouge on your cheeks. But put on your black dress first. And hurry.” “Oh my dear, I couldn’t--I’m too old--what will people think?” Mildly clucking, continuing to protest, Miss Mitchall was shoved into her costume, into the shoes with the silver buckles, into the long green cape. Cynthia, against the other’s mild opposition, patted rouge on the pale cheeks, then flung a towel over the cape and shook half a box of white talcum powder on the gray hair. “But my dear,” beamed Miss Mitchall, “it ... it makes me look so ... so young.” Indeed it did. The contrast of green cloth against the white hair was dramatic. “Very successful,” purred Cynthia. “You’ll be the belle of the ball. And it’s not immoral to look young you know. Now sit down there and be good till I get this scarf tied. Or no, ring for the steward, we must get a broom to go with the witch.” By the time they hurried out of their cabin the echoes of the dinner gong had been dead for ten minutes. But the corridors were full of laughing groups: harlequins, monks, pierrots, Turkish ladies, Dutch girls and nondescript costumes that defied a label. For fear that the Green Witch might bolt back to the cabin, Cynthia kept close behind her but after a few minutes realized this was unnecessary. Their passage was a minor triumphal procession for everyone turned to look at them and made some delighted exclamation over the novel costumes. Cynthia was amused to note that Miss Mitchall’s sharp little chin went higher, her step became firmer as the approbation grew and by the time they reached the stairway to the dining saloon she walked like a princess approaching her throne.