“Yes,” said Matilda, and wondered why more people didn’t lie for the sheer intoxication of it. It could miraculously commit one to anything. “Yes,” continued Matilda, “Dad will miss me. Mother won’t like it, but you must lend me two hundred dollars.” She held out her hand. Fred shifted his gum from one cheek to the other. He chewed peppermint gum so that his sister would not detect the odour of liquor on his breath. “I ain’t got any money,” he said sullenly. “Yes, you have. I saw you pull a roll of it out of your pocket. You must lend it to me. If you don’t I’ll write the folks what you’ve been up to. Mother’d be furious if she knew you drank and gambled. She’d take the car away from you.” Poor Fred looked shaken. Life in Crittenden without that Ford would be awful. They had sent Matilda to Chicago to spy on him and this was the result. “Two hundred,” insisted Matilda ominously. He squirmed miserably as he counted the money into her palm. The next afternoon Matilda’s locks made a dark swirling island on the floor of a State Street barber shop. Then a department store claimed her. She could imitate George Sand’s haircut but the waistcoat was another matter. Something intuitive counselled her that if she didn’t dare be mannish she must be as feminine as possible. So she bought a dinner gown of flame-coloured crêpe de chine. To this she added a long swathing kind of cape and a pair of black-satin pumps buckled in gold. She spent a whole hour before dinner nerving herself to the point of slipping that sheath of ignescent silk over her cropped head. She finally surveyed herself in the mirror and was panic stricken at what she saw. She was too lithe, almost colubrine, and every inch of her from shoulder to knee cap looked on fire. She cooled herself at a window and then returned to the mirror practising nonchalance. How broad and white her back was! But would George Sand have hesitated knowing that she was probably beautiful? Matilda shuddered and snatched up a long black motor veil from a hook. It would do duty as a scarf. She would let her shoulders slide out by inches. Matilda slipped into her seat at table and nervously attacked her soup. She did not raise her head. She felt that the least motion on her part would ignite a neighbour. Mr. Goodwillie coughed, and Miss Slattery sniffed. It was over the last spoonful of bread pudding that she caught Eugene Walter’s eyes fixed upon her. Flora Campbell gave the signal to rise. Mr. Goodwillie ceremoniously escorted her into the parlour. “Very tasty ... that frock. Going to the theatre?” “No,” she answered, “I just got tired wearing that stuffy serge.” “One does,” agreed Mr. Goodwillie stiltedly, seating her on the sofa.