"What hab yer done wid yer apron, chile? jes march right 'bout an' get it ter once. Who ebber hearn bout a chile ob yer age widout apron?"
Victoria's black eyes flashed like diamonds; she drew aside, leaning against the wall, with the grace of a bronze-figure, half-frightened out of her wits, but defiant still. What right had Clorinda to tell about her apron, or drive her down stairs? She cast an imploring glance at Dolf, but he looked resolutely away.
"Come in, gemmen, out ob sight ob dis obstinit chile," cried Clorinda, almost sweeping poor little Vic down with a flourish of her skirts.
"No," interposed gentlemanly Dolf, who had a genius for keeping out of storms. "The gentlemen were just saying, as we came up, how much they would like a walk towards the woods. So with your permission, Miss Clorinda, we will leave you to the feminine duties of the toilet; though beauty when unadorned is most adorned."
"'Cept when de gray hairs will peek out. Hi! hi! look dar!"
These audacious words were uttered by Victoria, whose pouting wrath could no longer be restrained.
The two city gentlemen fell to examining their gloves with great earnestness. Dolf made a hasty retreat through the door, calling on them to follow him, and Clorinda left five handsomely defined finger-marks on Victoria's hot cheek before she darted off to a looking-glass, and fell into a great burst of tears over the state of her treacherous turban.
"Now," said Vic, gathering herself up from the wall, and rubbing her cheek, down which great hot tears were leaping with passionate violence—"Now I'se gone and done it, sure; she won't let me—"
"Vic! Vic!"
It was the treacherous voice of Dolf, who came stealing in from the portico.