“Una Meredith can accompany you,” said Rilla.
“Oh, I couldn’t ask her,’ sighed Irene. “We haven’t spoken since last fall. She was so hateful to me the time of our Sunday School concert that I simply had to give her up.”
Dear, dear, was Irene at feud with everybody? As for Una Meredith being hateful to anybody, the idea was so farcical that Rilla had much ado to keep from laughing in Irene’s very face.
“Miss Oliver is a beautiful pianist and can play any accompaniment at sight,” said Rilla desperately. “She will play for you and you could run over your songs easily tomorrow evening at Ingleside before the concert.”
“But I haven’t anything to wear. My new evening dress isn’t home from Charlottetown yet, and I simply cannot wear my old one at such a big affair. It is too shabby and old-fashioned.”
“Our concert,” said Rilla slowly, “is in aid of Belgian children who are starving to death. Don’t you think you could wear a shabby dress once for their sake, Irene?”
“Oh, don’t you think those accounts we get of the conditions of the Belgians are very much exaggerated?” said Irene. “I’m sure they can’t be actually starving, you know, in the twentieth century. The newspapers always colour things so highly.”
Rilla concluded that she had humiliated herself enough. There was such a thing as self-respect. No more coaxing, concert or no concert. She got up, boot and all.
“I am sorry you can’t help us, Irene, but since you cannot we must do the best we can.”
