resentfully. “If she doesn’t know what it is to change a feather bed she might imagine it.”
When Priscilla had gone to the parlour, and before Anne could escape upstairs, Diana walked into the kitchen. Anne caught her astonished friend by the arm.
“Diana Barry, who do you suppose is in that parlour at this very moment? Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan . . . and a New York millionaire’s wife . . . and here I am like this . . . and not a thing in the house for dinner but a cold ham bone, Diana!”
By this time Anne had become aware that Diana was staring at her in precisely the same bewildered fashion as Priscilla had done. It was really too much.
“Oh, Diana, don’t look at me so,” she implored. “You, at least, must know that the neatest person in the world couldn’t empty feathers from one tick into another and remain neat in the process.”
“It . . . it . . . isn’t the feathers,” hesitated Diana. “It’s . . . it’s . . . your nose, Anne.”
“My nose? Oh, Diana, surely nothing has gone wrong with it!”
Anne rushed to the little looking glass over the sink. One glance revealed the fatal truth. Her nose was a brilliant scarlet!
Anne sat down on the sofa, her dauntless spirit subdued at last.
“What is the matter with it?” asked Diana, curiosity overcoming delicacy.
“I thought I was rubbing my freckle lotion on it,
