“Made up? What do you mean?”
“One of the girls said it was, and that sometimes you painted.”
Lilian was angry then.
“My paint and powder are soap and water,” she returned, indignantly. “It is a shame for a young girl to do such things.”
“But you are pretty. Must your mother be the caretaker here? What does she have to do?”
“She looks after the sewing and the mending. Yes, because we are poor, we both have to earn our living. Some day I mean to teach and take care of her.”
“Where is your father?”
“Oh, he died when I was a baby.”
“Well—I’m awful sorry. Do you like that Phillipa Rosewald?”
“I don’t know much about her.”