SCENE. – A sewing-room, with the usual piles of unfinished or unmended clothing heaped on tables and chairs. Mrs. Lester, a pretty, fussy little woman, is trying on her own gowns and then tossing them aside, one after another.

Enter Miss Cotton, a visiting dressmaker.

Mrs. Lester: Oh, Miss Cotton, I’m so glad you’ve come! I’m nearly frantic. Excuse the looks of this sewing-room. I don’t see why a sewing-room never can keep itself cleared up! I suppose it’s because they never have any closets in them; or if they do, you have to hang your best dresses there – there’s no other place. And so this room gets simply jammed with white work and mending and hats, and I don’t know what all! My husband says it’s like the Roman Forum done in dry-goods. But he’s a regular Miss Nancy about neatness and order. Now, to-day, Miss Cotton, we’re going to do sleeves. See? Sleeves! And nothing else. I’m simply driven crazy by them.

Oh, don’t look as if you didn’t know what I meant! You know, all my gowns have elbow sleeves, and I must either have long ones put in or throw the whole dress away.

Yes, I know I said I’d wear the short sleeves, if other people did insist on having long ones. I know I said I’d be independent, and at least wear out the ones I have. But I’m conquered! I admit it! It isn’t any fun to go to a luncheon and be the only woman at the table with elbow sleeves!

Yesterday I went to Mrs. Ritchie’s Bridge, and my partner, that big Mrs. Van Winkle, with chains of scarabs all over her chest till she looked like the British Museum, kept pulling her long sleeves down farther over her knuckles just to annoy me.

Yes, I know it, my forearm is white and round, but I declare it makes me feel positively indecent to go with it bared nowadays. If those suffrage people would only get for women the right to bare arms, they’d do something worth while.

No, indeed, I can’t afford to get new gowns. These are too good to throw away.

Well, they may not be the latest style, but I don’t want those bolster-slip arrangements for mine.

Mrs. Van Bumpus, now – you know her, don’t you? Well, it would take two kimonos to go round her, I’m sure; and I saw her the other day in one of those clinging satin rigs. My! she looked exactly like a gypsy-wagon, the kind that has canvas stretched over its ribs.

No, it’s sleeves, sleeves, I’m after to-day – and that’s why I sent for you.

I’m going to superintend them, you understand, but I want you to help, and to do the plain sewing.

Well, to begin on this mauve crépon. I want to wear it this afternoon, and I think we can easily get it done, between us.

I’ve bought a paper pattern – I bought three – for I mean to spare no expense in getting my sleeves right.

So I bought three different makes, and think this one is best. It was a sort of bargain, too, for they sold the sleeve pattern and a pattern for little boys’ pajamas, all for ten cents. I don’t know what to do with the pajamas pattern – so that does seem a waste. I’ve no little boy, and I shouldn’t make pajamas for him if I had. I think the one-piece nighties far more sensible. If you know of any one who has a little boy, I’ll sell that pattern for half price. Still, ten cents wasn’t much to pay for this sleeve pattern. You see, it’s really three sleeve patterns. One plain, with dart; one plain, without dart; and one tucked. I’ll use them all, in different waists, but for this mauve crépon, I think, we’ll try the tucked one. It would be sweet in net or chiffon. Yes, I bought both materials, for I didn’t know which you’d think prettier; I trust a great deal to your judgment and experience, though I always rely on my own taste.

Now, here’s the tucked sleeve. Merciful powers! Look at the length of it! Oh, it’s to be tucked all the way up, you see, and that brings it the right length. Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the sleeve from net already tucked? No, that’s so – I couldn’t match the shade in tucked stuff of any sort. I tried in seven shops. Well, let’s see. These rows of perforations match these rows. No – that isn’t right. That would make the tucks wider than the spaces. Why, I never saw such millions of perforations in one piece of paper before! Look here, this isn’t a sleeve pattern at all! It’s a Pianola roll! I’m going to put through and see if it isn’t that old thing in F, or something classic. Cut out the tucked sleeve, Miss Cotton. Oh, wait, I didn’t mean that literally! My husband reproves me so often for using slang. I mean, I won’t have my arms done up in Bach’s fugues; I should feel like a hand-organ.

Let’s try this plain sleeve with dart. H’m – “lay the line of large perforations lengthwise of the material.” And here are large perforations sprinkled all over the thing! Oh, no, that isn’t the way! Yes, I’m quite willing you should show me, if you know yourself – but I see these directions confuse you as much as they do me; and if there’s to be a mistake made in cutting this expensive material, I’d rather make it myself. This says, “developed in piqué it will produce satisfactory results.” Well, I can’t wear piqué sleeves in a crépon gown! Can I? There – I’ve cut it! Now, “close seam, gather between double crosses, make no seam where there are three crosses, bring together corresponding lines of perforations – and finish free edges!” Well! I rather guess those free edges will finish me! However, baste it up, Miss Cotton, and I’ll try it on. It’s easy to make sleeves, after all, isn’t it?

Why! I can’t begin to get my arm into that pipe-stem! What? I should have allowed seams? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, no, I didn’t scorn your advice! Why, that’s what I have you here for! Well, those sleeves are ruined. A living skeleton couldn’t get into those. It’s most confusing, the way some patterns allow seams and some don’t. I was going to get one with “all seams allowed,” but it had another part to it – a “brassière.” I don’t know what that is, but probably some sort of a brass pot or other bric-à-brac junk, and I don’t want any more of that. The den is full now. Well, I’m tired of making sleeves. What do you think, Miss Cotton, of just adding lace lower halfs? I bought a lovely pair, in case the sleeves didn’t turn out well. Now, I’ll put on the bodice, and you pin them on, and we’ll see how they look.

Oh, they’re not nearly long enough! They ought to come well below my wrists. And such beautiful lace – it’s a shame not to use them. Yes, perhaps a band of lace at the elbow might help. No, that looks awfully patchy – take it away. A ruching at the wrist? No, nobody wears that. Oh, dear, what can we do? I must have this gown for this afternoon!

Here’s a pair of long lace sleeves, whole ones, I bought in case I needed them. Would they do? No – the lace doesn’t match that on the bodice. Dye them? No, thank you! I bought some dye once, and the package said on the outside in big letters: “Dyeing at Home! No trouble at all!” and it gave me such a turn, I never could think of wearing a dyed sleeve! What can I do? I believe I’ll wear them as they are. I hate long sleeves anyway. They get so soiled, and they bag at the elbows, and they’re terribly unbecoming. Oh, I’ve a whole black net guimpe! I bought it, thinking it might be useful for something. Suppose we rip out these sleeves, and the lace neck, and just wear the bodice over this guimpe!

Oh! oh! it looks horrid! just like an old-fashioned “jumper” suit! You’ll have to put the neck back as it was.

But then what can we do with the sleeves?

Nothing! Just nothing! I shall have to stay at home until I can get some entirely new gowns made. It’s a sin and shame, the way we poor women have to be slaves to Fashion! And I know, just as soon as I am fitted out with long sleeves, the pretty, short ones will come in style again!

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

SCENE. – The Pelhams’ living room. It is decorated for Christmas, and on tables are displayed many beautiful gifts that have been sent to Mr. and Mrs. Pelham.

Mrs. Pelham (in pretty evening gown and a spray of holly in her hair, looks wistful and discontented. She stands by a table and fingers some of the gifts, and then sits at the piano and hums a snatch of a Christmas carol, and then throws herself into an easy chair. She speaks): Dick, do stop reading the paper, and be Christmassy! It might as well be the eighteenth of July as the twenty-fourth of December, for all the Christmas spirit you show! I do think this is the pokiest old Christmas Eve I ever spent, and I thought it was going to be the loveliest! I thought for once I’d have everything ready ahead of time – and now look at the result! Nothing to do, nothing to enjoy, no surprises. Everybody said, “Let’s buy our gifts early, and so save the poor shopgirls’ lives.” And goodness knows I’m only too glad to help the poor shopgirls in any way I can!

Why, I never wait for my change, – if it’s only a few pennies, – and you’d be surprised to see how pleased and surprised they are at that. It’s pathetic to see their gratitude for six cents. Why, the other day Mrs. Muchmore kept me waiting with her a long time to get her nine cents change, and when I suggested that she come away without it, and let the shopgirl have it, she looked at me as if I had robbed her. Well, then we were late for the matinée, and had to take a taxicab; so she didn’t make much, after all.

No; I’m a great friend of the shopgirl, and I’m glad to do all I can for them; but this buying Christmas presents in October is so tame and uninteresting! Then I bought all my tissue paper and holly ribbon and fancy seals in November; and early in December I had the whole lot tied up and labeled. I had three clothes-baskets full of the loveliest looking parcels! And then they sat around till I was sick of the sight of them!

Don’t you remember, Dick, how you used to tumble over them in the guest rooms? And you said I was a dear, forehanded little wife to have them all ready so soon? You’ll never have such a forehanded little wife again, I can tell you!

And then, to save the poor expressman, everybody is urged to send their presents early nowadays. So I sent mine all off a week ago. And everybody sent theirs to me a week ago. To be sure, this plan has the advantage that often I can see what someone else sends me, before I send a return gift. My! it was lucky I saw Bertha Hamilton’s Armenian centerpiece before I sent her that veil case! I changed, and sent her an Empire mirror, and she’ll think her centerpiece rather skinny now!

But, all the same, I hate this fashion. Why, I’ve had all this junk set out on tables four days now, and I’m tired of the sight of it. And even the p-p-paper and st-string are all cleared away. No – Dick – I’m not crying, and you needn’t try to coax me up! Well, of course, it isn’t your fault, though you did egg me on. But everybody does it now, and we’ve even written our notes of thanks to each other. I always used to dread doing those the day after Christmas; but now it makes me homesick to think they’re all d-done. And even this lovely necklace you gave me I’ve had it a w-week, and it doesn’t seem like a Christmas present at all! Yes, I know I gave you your gold cigarette case two weeks ago; but I wanted to be sure you liked it before I had it monogrammed. It seems now as if I had given it to you last year.

Oh, I think it used to be lovely when we didn’t get our things until Christmas Eve or Christmas Day – and then some belated presents would come straggling along for days afterward! And the night before Christmas we were madly rushing around tying up things, and I’d be up till all hours finishing a piece of embroidery, and you’d have to tear downtown for some forgotten presents, and the bundles were simply piling in, and the expressman would come at midnight, grumbling a little, but very merry and Christmassy! Then I’d have to set the alarm, and get up at five o’clock Christmas morning to press off my centerpiece, and pack off Clara’s box, and do a thousand things before breakfast. And we’d eat breakfast by snatches between undoing parcels and sending off boxes. And the rooms were knee-deep with a clutter of paper and strings and excelsior and shredded tissue, and – oh, it was lovely! And now – all that has been over for a week! And it really didn’t happen then; for it’s all been gradual since October. And here it is Christmas Eve, and not a thing to do! And to-morrow morning it’ll be Christmas, and not a thing to do! Oh, Dick, it’s perfectly horrid, and I’ll never, never get ready for Christmas early again! I’m so lonesome for the hurry and rush of an old-fashioned Christmas Eve!

What’s that? You’ll take me downtown – now? Down to the shops? ’Deed I will get my coat and hat! There isn’t a soul left to buy a present for; but we can buy some things for next year – Oh, no, no, not that! But we’ll buy some things and give them to the shopgirls. And, at any rate, we’ll get into the bustle and cheer of a real Christmas Eve! Come on, Dick, I’m all ready! Merry Christmas, Dick!