"She isn't prettier than me?" the girl said, as if she desired to be certain upon the point.
"I didn't say she was," Grif responded, swinging one foot upon the pavement.
"And she hasn't got smaller hands than me?"
"I didn't say she had, Milly."
"Nor smaller feet?"
"Nobody said so."
"Nor brighter eyes, nor a nicer figure? And yet," Milly said, with a kind of struggle in her voice, "and yet she's a lady, and I'm not."
"Don't be angry with me, Milly," Grif pleaded, as if with him rested the responsibility of the difference between the two women.
"Why should I be angry with you?" asked Milly, her voice hardening. "It's not your fault. I often wonder if it is mine! It's hard to tell; isn't it?"
Grif, not understanding the drift of the question, could not conscientiously answer; yet, feeling himself called upon to express some opinion, he nodded his head acquiescently.