As she stared at the dresses laid out on the bed, flaxen-haired Cynthia Prescott heaved an unbridled sigh. “But would it be wrong to tell her how utterly outmoded they are?” “Of course it would be wrong, Cynthia!” Margaret chided her cousin. “You cannot do that! It would be terribly heartless of you!” “I would sooner die than let someone see me in a gown with such brazen ruffles!” Cynthia plucked the most ostentatious garment from her bed and hurled it at Margaret. “You, however… you could wear it. You rarely concern yourself with such trivial things. And you are, after all, Grandmama’s favorite. If you wore one of these offensive gowns to supper, I am sure she would be most pleased!” As a slight frown tipped her lips, Margaret asked, “Are you supposing that fashion is less of a concern to me than it is to you?” “No, Maggie! I meant no offense. I am merely suggesting that you are not as vain as I am, and therefore not as fastidious. I was complimenting you.”
