I Had to dash into town before going out to Vera's for the weekend. There was little in the fashion line to be seen, but raincoats showed that they were following umbrellas in the trend towards colour. Oiled silk capes and hoods, and oiled silk coats, hats and kerchiefs (for the head) are beautiful in their printed or plain semi-transparency. They cannot take the place of a real “weatherproof” in downpours, but they are useful in showery weather, and have the advantages of weighing light and folding small.

Several women were wearing zipped boots warmly lined—an excellent idea, especially in avoiding splashed stockings.

By the time I had dodged in and out of shops, from one dripping verandah to the next, and strap-hung for twenty-five minutes in a tram full of moist fellow-creatures, and walked for ten minutes through a miserable downpour trying to hold my umbrella over an attache case and a couple of parcels, it was a cross and dripping specimen who finally tottered on to Vera's porch and pressed the bell.

“Oh, you poor thing! Come in!”

“How can I?” I said fiercely gazing at the hall rug (Indian) and the immaculate gleam of boards round it. “I'll go round to the back.”

“No! Wait there. I'll get something.”

I laid the parcels on the dry doorstep and gingerly removed my coat and hat and hung them on a handy peg. That felt better. My cold fingers fumbled with shoe-fastenings (buckles are not as easy as buttons) and I kicked off my shoes. By this time Vera was back again.

“Here's a towel to wipe your face. And your skirt's wet! Take it off—and your stockings. Here's a gown and some slippers.”

Comparatively dry, I stepped into the hall, snuggling into Vera's very best house-coat—a soft crimson woollen with wide rounded revers, a fitted waist and full tucked sleeves. I preened myself before the hall mirror. The waist and sleeves were definitely flattering.

“Come on, vanity, here's a fire.”

There was, and I stayed by it for hours, intermittently admiring Vera's industry in knitting an oatmeal angora jumper in lace pattern.

That evening, the weather clearing, Vera rang a friend for bridge. The friend, a nice girl, beautifully fair, wore, over a plain black frock, a jacket I immediately coveted. It was in gold and black brocade, with wide rounded revers (rather like those of the house-coat), a fitted waist, flared hips and slim sleeves. Its chief beauty had to be pointed out to me. It was lined and interlined. To keep her hair tidy out-of-doors, the visitor wore a black veil fastened round the head by a wisp of gold, and with its gold-trimmed edges floating free.

Not to put me out of countenance, Vera had changed into a very simple frock of dull black crepe with a little pointed collar of coral shade, fastening high. There was a glimpse through the front opening, round which the bodice was gauged, of coral vest. Very plain—but very attractive.

At supper time, Vera brought out her latest birthday present—a new type of handbag, like a hold-all in shape. I handed round Retta's latest letter, and George, the husband, who had made an adequate fourth at bridge, but who was not interested in women's clothes chat, perked up at the mention of rock gardens.

Vera laughed. “George will be inspired to get some fresh catalogues—and we're sure to have an alpine lawn.”

Here is the garden part of Retta's letter.