“So it is, I do declare!” agreed Pauline, frankly as interested as her sister.
It was.
“Oh!” breathed Rosie regretfully, as the car swept them further from the figure of the popular hero. “Doesn’t he look lovely? He’s just like his portraits, only nicer, isn’t he?”
“I—I couldn’t see him very well,” said the discreet Pauline.
“Yes, you could,” Rosie corrected her sharply. “You know you adore him. But you’re always so mum.”
Pauline smiled placidly.
“I do wish we could meet him—be introduced to him I mean!” said Rosie.
“My dear child,” Pauline reprimanded. “Don’t be silly. He’s frightfully rich.”
“I know!” said Rosie sadly. “But he isn’t married. I think his hair’s beautiful.”
In common with very many English and other girls, Rosie and Pauline were capable of displaying brazenly, for a man they had scarcely seen, an affection the tenth part of which certain males with whom they were intimately acquainted would have been delighted to receive. Their virgin hearts had never been touched, not even by the Apollos of the house of Shooter; they prided themselves on their unapproachableness; yet they could rave about Carpentaria, and openly profess that they were his slaves. In Carpentaria’s presence they would doubtless have behaved, even if they did not feel, differently.