She thought any one who did not enjoy her antics must be very ill-natured, while her silly mother considered that Floretta had been abused.
While Dorothy and Nancy were talking with Floretta, they were picking large bouquets of bluebells and a tiny white flower that grew as abundantly as the bluebells, and blossomed as freely.
It pleased her, for the moment, to gather some of the blossoms, and soon the three were too busy to talk, each trying to see which could gather the largest bouquet.
On the hotel piazza Mrs. Paxton sat, occupied with her embroidery, but not too busy to talk. She was never too busy to talk, if she could find any one to listen.
Near her sat two ladies who had just arrived, and old Mr. Cunningham, who frowned darkly at the magazine that he was trying to read.
It was not that the story displeased him that he frowned, but that he was bored with hearing what Mrs. Paxton was saying, mainly because she always said the same thing.
"You see, with our wealth and position, it is impossible that little Floretta should ever make any use of her talents for any purpose other than the amusement of her friends," she said.
One of the two ladies, whose fine face and sweet low voice bespoke refinement, looked fixedly at Mrs. Paxton, and wondered that any woman should be willing to boast so foolishly.
The other, whose garments told of a great love of display, seemed interested, and even impressed.
"What is her especial talent?" she asked, "I really should like to know. Is she musical?"