"My dear little Gwen!" said her fond mamma.
"Her serge frock seems rather dry for one that has just been plunged into the water," said a lady who sat near them on the piazza.
"Oh, look at her shoes! They're dry too!" cried a small boy. "Say! When did you get your ducking?"
"You stop laughing, Max Deland!" cried Gwen. "I guess I could tell whether he ducked me or not better than you could, for you weren't there!"
"Oh, yes, you could tell!" cried the small boy, "but it might not be so, for all that, Gwen Harcourt."
Mrs. Harcourt rose quickly, and taking Gwen by the hand, left the piazza, and went up to her room.
"Strange that any woman would be so foolish as to credit a yarn like that even if it is her own child that tells it," said the lady who had spoken of the dry frock that Gwen declared had just been plunged into water.
"Yes, it is strange, but I've known other women who were nearly as blind to their children's faults," her friend replied.
"The child is really pretty, but so bold, and pert that although she arrived less than a week ago, there is not a guest at this hotel who does not feel relieved when she leaves the piazza. Only think," the lady continued, "she was out here this morning, sitting in that big chair that old Mr. Pendleton likes to have. He's ill, and Gwen knew that he came out expecting to sit in it, but she looked up at him, and did not stir. 'Gwen, dear,' Mrs. Harcourt said; 'I think Mr. Pendleton would like that chair.' 'Well, I like it, and I'm going to keep it,' Gwen said, swinging her legs, and settling back in the chair. 'You really musn't mind her,' Mrs. Harcourt said.
"'I don't intend to,' he said, and Mrs. Harcourt looked as if she wondered what he meant."