She was surprised
herself to find that she liked the Doctor better the more masculine and
aggressive he became. It was unreasonable and against all principle,
and yet so it was and no argument could mend the matter.
Very hot and angry, the Doctor retired into his room and sat down to
read his paper. Ida had retired, and the distant wails of the bugle
showed that she was upstairs in her boudoir. Clara sat opposite to him
with her exasperating charts and her blue book. The Doctor glanced at
her and his eyes remained fixed in astonishment upon the front of her
skirt.
"My dear Clara," he cried, "you have torn your skirt!"
His daughter laughed and smoothed out her frock. To his horror he saw
the red plush of the chair where the dress ought to have been. "It is
all torn!" he cried. "What have you done?"
"My dear papa!" said she, "what do you know about the mysteries of
ladies' dress? This is a divided skirt."
Then he saw that it was indeed so arranged, and that his daughter was
clad in a sort of loose, extremely long knickerbockers.
"It will be so convenient for my sea-boots," she explained.
Her father shook his head sadly. "Your dear mother would not have liked
it, Clara," said he.
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