“Why, of course, you may remain here—father says—until you can place yourself. But he does not believe in fostering idleness. He often says so,” said Belle, heaping it all on “poor Pa.”
Helen had taken her seat at the table and Gregson was serving. It mattered nothing to these ill-bred Starkweather girls that the serving people heard how they treated this “poor relation.”
Helen remained silent for several minutes. She tried to look sad. Within, however, she was furiously angry. But this was not the hour for her to triumph.
Flossie had been giggling for a few moments. Now she asked her cousin, saucily:
“I say! Where did you pick up that calico dress, Helen?”
“This?” returned the visitor, looking down at the rather ugly print. “It’s a gingham. Bought it ready-made in Elberon. Do you like it?”
“I love it!” giggled Flossie. “And it’s made in quite a new style, too.”
“Do you think so? Why, I reckoned it was old,” said Helen, smoothly. “But I’m glad to hear it’s so fitten to wear. For, you see, I ain’t got many clo’es.”
“Don’t you have dressmakers out there in Montana?” asked Hortense, eyeing the print garment as though it was something entirely foreign.
“I reckon. But we folks on the range don’t get much chance at ’em. Dressmakers is as scurce around Sunset Ranch as killyloo birds. Unless ye mought call Injun squaws dressmakers.”