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She pulled her dress off.
She was in danger now. Until this moment, she might have explained her presence here, just about plausibly, by pretending she had lost her bearings in Ty Gwyn's miles of corridors and gone into the wrong room by mistake. But no girl's reputation could survive being found in a man's room in her underwear.
She took the top shirt off the pile. The collar had to be attached with a stud, she saw with a groan. She found a dozen starched collars in a drawer with a box of studs, and fixed one to the shirt, then pulled the shirt over her head.
She heard a man's heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, and froze, her heart beating like a big drum, but the steps went by.
She decided to wear formal morning dress. The striped trousers had no suspenders attached, but she found some in another drawer. She figured out how to button the suspenders to the trousers, then pulled the trousers on. The waist was big enough for two of her.
She pushed her stockinged feet into a pair of shiny black shoes and laced them.
She buttoned the shirt and put on a silver tie. The knot was wrong, but it did not matter, and anyway she did not know the correct way to tie it, so she left it as it was.
She put on a fawn double-breasted waistcoat and a black tailcoat, then she looked in the full-length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door.
The clothes were baggy but she looked cute anyway.
Now that she had time, she put gold links in the shirt cuffs and a white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the coat.
Something was missing. She stared at herself in the mirror until she figured out what else she needed.
A hat.
She opened another cupboard and saw a row of hatboxes on a high shelf. She found a gray top hat and perched it on the back of her head.
She remembered the mustache.
She did not have an eyebrow pencil with her. She returned to Boy's bedroom and bent over the fireplace. It was still summer, and there was no fire. She got some soot on her fingertip, returned to the mirror, and carefully drew a mustache on her upper lip.
She was ready.
She sat in one of the leather armchairs to wait for him.
Her instinct told her she was doing the right thing, but rationally it seemed bizarre. However, there was no accounting for arousal. She herself had got wet inside when he took her up in his plane. It had been impossible for them to canoodle while he was concentrating on flying the little aircraft, and that was just as well, for soaring through the air had been so exciting that she probably would have let him do anything he wanted.
However, boys could be unpredictable, and she feared he might be angry. When that happened his handsome face would twist into an unattractive grimace, he would tap his foot very quickly, and he could become quite cruel. Once when a waiter with a limp had brought him the wrong drink he had said: "Just hobble back to the bar and bring me the Scotch I ordered--being a cripple doesn't make you deaf, does it?" The wretched man had flushed with shame.
She wondered what Boy would say to her if he was angered by her
being in his room.
He arrived five minutes later.
She heard his tread outside, and realized she already knew him well enough to recognize his step.
The door opened and he came in without seeing her.
She put on a deep voice and said: "Hello, old chap, how are you?"
He started and said: "Good God!" Then he looked again. "Daisy?"
She stood up. "The same," she said in her normal voice. He was still staring at her in surprise. She doffed the top hat, gave a little bow, and said: "At your service." She replaced the hat on her head at an angle.
After a long moment, he recovered from the shock and grinned.
Thank God, she thought.
He said: "I say, that topper does suit you."
