She was even more relieved that through some mischance, for which Atwood, who went with her, taxed himself, her return call found Julie out. Visiting-cards she had none, their urgent need having hitherto never presented itself; but Atwood helped her pretend before the rather overpowering servant that she had forgotten them, and, scribbling her name upon one of his own, bore her off for an evening at the play. Here, for the space of a week, matters rested, only to hatch a fresh embarrassment in the end, beside which calls were trivialities. This was no less than an invitation to dine, and to dine, not with Mrs. Van Ostade and Atwood merely, but as one of a more or less formal company--so Craig enlightened her--of the clever or socially significant. Jean heard these depressing explanations with a sick face. "I can't go," she protested quickly. "Don't ask me." "Can't!" he repeated. "Why not?" "You know why. They're different, these people--as different from me as if I were Chinese." "What rubbish!" "It's the truth. Perhaps later, when I've studied more, seen more, I can meet them and not shame you--" "Shame me, Jean! If you realized how proud I am--" "Then don't put me in a position where you may feel anything but proud. Don't make me go." He reasoned with her laughingly, but without real understanding of her reluctance. "Besides," he concluded, "you can't decline. The dinner is really for you." Her cup of misery brimmed over. "For me!" "In a way, it's in honor of our engagement, even though it isn't known." "Your sister wrote nothing of this." "But she told me. She said she wanted you to meet some of our friends. Don't be afraid of them, Jean. You're as clever as any of them, while in looks not a woman Julie knows can hold a candle to you." "But their clothes! Don't you see it's impossible? I've absolutely nothing to wear." The man flicked this thistle-down airily away. "Dowds, half of 'em, Julie's crowd," he declared. "You don't need anything elaborate. Just wear some simple gown that doesn't hide your neck. Simple things tell." "And cost," she added, smiling ruefully at his nebulous solution. "I have never owned a dinner-gown in my life." Atwood had an inspiration. "Why, the studio is full of them," he cried. "Your sister's--every one. Could I wear one of her dresses to her dinner?" "Hardly. What inferior intellects men have! But is there any objection to your wearing one of _my_ gowns? None of the properties fit the scheme of illustrations I've planned for that last novel, and I've decided to have one or two things made. Now, if you'll choose the material and bother with the fittings--" Jean's laugh riddled this improvisation. "I'll go if I must," she promised, "but I'll wear my own clothes. After all, I know something about dressmaking."