"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.
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