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 size figure just the slightly billowy effect which Dorothy admired. As Dorothy contemplated herself in the mirror, she regretted more than ever that Arnold hadn’t been invited. It was almost a pity to look so well for the benefit of the family.

She could imagine this function carried off properly. It would take place in an expensive apartment on lower Riverside Drive rather than in a private four-story house on Eighty-eighth Street, where one could hear the elevated trains rattle by when the windows were open. It would be in a dining-room with painted walls, illuminated by shaded wall brackets rather than in what had once been a “back-parlor,’ with nondescript green wall-paper and a glaring overhead candelabra. It would be served by a uniformed butler rather than by Lena, a pudgy household institution. There would be all kinds of distinguished people present (and Arnold) rather than the family. It would be followed by a party which occupied all of the boxes at the season’s most successful offering rather than attendance on a comedy which had been damned with the adjective “wholesome.”

“Dorothy-y!”

Her mother’s voice ended the hypothetical reconstruction of the evening. She went down to the sitting-room (second floor front) to be greeted by a heavy smack from Uncle Elliott, who wore a senatorial full dress suit. Her mother had on a tight-fitting black net dress which, as Tommy Borge had once observed, curves rather than speed. Her father entertained in evening clothes which seemed too long and his collar appeared to be too large. His white bow tie was of the ready-made order. He was sensitive about his inability to tie a presentable bow-knot and looked suspiciously on anyone who referred to his formal neckwear.