“No, Mary never gets a whipping, not even when I deserve one. Mamma is very fond of Mary; so am I,” she added. Mrs. Fox-Darriel took up her book with a little yawn that Camelia for all her placidity resented.
“How can you read that garbage?” she inquired smilingly, glancing at the title.
“The bête humaine rather interests me.”
“Even interpreted by another? The man is far more insupportable than Zola, inasmuch as he is clever, and an artist.”
“That’s why I read him. You seem to know a good deal about garbage, my dear.”
“I know a good deal about everything, I fancy!” said Camelia, with her gayest laugh. “I took a course of garbage once, just enough to make up my mind that I did not care for the flavor. We have a right to choose the phases of life we want to see represented.”
“I like garbage,” Mrs. Fox-Darriel said stubbornly.
“Yes, you are very catholic, I know. I am more limited.” Camelia still eyed the lawn, sniffing at the magnolia. Now she rose suddenly and went to the mirror.
“Mary puts on a sailor hat—so,” she said gravely, setting hers far back at a ludicrous angle. “Poor Mary!” She tilted the hat forward again, and briskly put the pin through it. “I am going down to harry Mrs. Jedsley. Good-bye, Frances.”
“Good-bye. I shall be down to tea presently.”