The entertainment was to be an evening one, to which parents and friends were invited. It would be a very festive occasion, and of course everybody would come in evening dress. Here was a point that caused Lesbia great heart-burning. Her boxes, which Paul had promised to send back from Canada, had not yet arrived, and unless they made their appearance before the important 19th of December, she would be reduced to the horrible alternative of missing the party altogether or attending it in her school frock. She had hinted at her predicament to Mrs. Patterson, hoping for the loan of one of Joan's evening dresses, but Mrs. Patterson had been aggressively obtuse, and had hinted in her turn that it would do Lesbia no harm to do without her best clothes until she realized the value of them. Every day poor Lesbia looked hopefully on her return from school to see whether her boxes were in the hall, and every day she met with the same disappointment. The matter was growing urgent. On the afternoon of 17th December, she measured herself playfully against Joan Patterson and ventured to remark: "I'm nearly as tall as you, Jo! I believe I could almost wear one of your frocks." "Oh no, you couldn't," laughed Joan. "They'd be miles too long for you, child, and would look absurd." "Even turned up a few inches?" "Turned up," echoed Joan in horror. "It spoils a dress for ever to turn it up. The stitching shows a long line when you let it down again." It was evident, as Lesbia thought sorrowfully, there was "nothing doing in that quarter". If her box did not arrive she must miss the performance, for she could not sit among a silk or _crêpe de Chine_ clad audience in a serge skirt and a knitted jumper. She entered the cloak-room next morning in the gloomiest of spirits. She found Ermie, Kathleen, Marion, and a few others collected together talking excitedly. From their tragic tones some catastrophe had evidently just occurred. "What's the matter?" asked Lesbia. "Matter! Why, here's a note from Phillis to say she's in bed with bronchitis and won't be able to act 'Etaire' to-morrow. Isn't it simply sickening?" explained Marion. "What _are_ we to do?" groused Kathleen. "Go and break it to Miss Lightwood, I suppose," suggested Cissie. "Phillis _might_ have chosen some other time to have bronchitis," mourned Calla. Miss Lightwood received the bad news with more equanimity than her pupils. Probably she was accustomed to cope with such "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune".