Nell disappeared into the wardrobe in search of a skirt. When she emerged she stared incredulously at the Atom. Sheila Pat was wriggling her head into a pink cotton frock. "What on _earth_ are you putting that on for?" "I prefer it to that," with a nod at a loose white cashmere frock lying on the bed. "Are you mad, Sheila Pat? Why, it’s November. Where did you dig it up from?" "One of the trunks. Will you hook it, please, Nell?" "Indeed, I won’t. Take it off at once. Don’t be so silly." "I’m never cold. Do let me wear it, Nell." Sheila Pat laid her delicate little face wheedlingly against Nell’s arm. "Do let me." "I can’t, asthore. You’d catch cold." When the Atom indulged in her rare coaxing she was hard to resist. "I’ll put my coat on, too, Nell!" But Nell was firm. "No, Sheila Pat. And why do you want to wear it, anyway?" "It’s just a little longer than that one. Why, I show my _knees_ in that, Nell!" "What’s it matter if you do, you goose?" "I do not _like_ showin’ my knees. And I want pertickly to look grown-up to-day." "Why?" "Persons," quoth Sheila Pat, austerely, "can’t take liberties with grown-ups. They can’t talk to them if you don’t wish them to," her pronouns getting somewhat mixed. "Whom don’t you want to talk to you?" "That little boy—Stewart." "But why not?" Nell peered at her laughingly through her hair. "I know him. I’ve got him at home in that book Mrs. Norton gave me," laboriously wriggling out of the much-desired cotton frock. "He saves up all his pocket money in a money box and buys himself a new coat with it. And he’d sooner learn his Catchykism than play cricket. I know him!" "Well," said Nell, tying on her hair ribbon, "of all the nasty little hard-hearted wretches you’re the worst!" "Oh, I’m very sorry he’s lame," with belated consideration, "but I _won’t_ have him talk to me!" "I don’t believe he’s a bit goody, poor little chap, and, anyway, why should he want to talk to you?" This aspect of the case had not struck Sheila Pat. She considered it as she pulled on the cashmere frock. "Amn’t I Irish, then?" she decided gloomily. "Of course he’ll want to talk to me." "I’m going to see how Molly’s getting on," Nell said. In Molly’s room chaos greeted her. On the floor stood a drawer, its contents scattered everywhere. The bed was strewn with blouses, hats, a pair of shoes, collars, while Molly herself, red-faced, dishevelled, attired in skirt and petticoat-bodice, was wildly turning out another drawer. "Ready, Mol?" inquired Nell, blandly. "Oh, don’t, Nell! I can’t help it! I _can’t_ find my grey blouse—the one with the white piping—I’ve hunted _everywhere_!" "In the box?" "N-no! I forgot!" making a dash at the dress basket. "Oh, don’t laugh, Nell. I looked _everywhere_ else!"