It was a few weeks after the above-recorded episode that Griffith arrived one afternoon, in some haste, with a note from Dolly addressed to Aimée, and containing a few hurried lines. It had been enclosed in a letter to himself. Somewhat unexpectedly Miss MacDowlas had decided upon giving a dinner-party, and Dolly wanted the white merino, which she had forgotten to put into her trunk when she had packed it. Would they make a parcel of it and send it by Mollie to Brabazon Lodge? “You will have to go at once, Mollie,” said Aimée, after reading the note. “It will be dark in an hour, and you ought not to be out after dark.” “It is a great deal nicer to be out then,” said Mollie, whose ideas of propriety were by no means rigid. “I like to see the shop windows lighted up. Where is my hat? Does anybody know?” rising from the carpet and abandoning Tod to his own resources. Nobody did know, of course. It was not natural that anybody should. Hats and gloves and such small fry were generally left to provide quarters for themselves in Bloomsbury Place. “What is the use of bothering?” remarked Mrs. Phil, disposing of the difficulty of their non-appearance when required, simply; “they always turn up in time.” And in like manner Mollie's hat “turned up,” and in a few minutes she returned to the parlor, tying the elastic under her hair. “Your hair wants doing,” said Aimée, having made up her parcel. “Yes,” replied Mollie, contentedly, “Tod has been pulling himself up by it; but it would be such a trouble to do anything to it just now, and I can tuck it back in a bunch. It only looks a little fuzzy, and that 's fashionable. Does this jacket look shabby, Aimée? It is a good thing it has pockets in it. I always _did_ like pockets in a jacket, they are so nice to put your hands in when your gloves have holes in them.” “Your gloves oughtn't to have holes in them,” commented Aimée. “But how can you help it if you have n't got the money to buy new ones?” asked Mollie. “You ought to mend them,” said the wise one. “Mend them!” echoed Mollie, regarding two or three bare pink finger-tips dubiously. “They are not worth mending.” “They were once,” said Aimée; “and you ought to have stitched them before it was too late. But that is always our way,” wrinkling her forehead with her usual touch of old-young anxiousness. “We are not practical. There! take the parcel and walk quickly, Mollie.”