"You're a lot nicer than I am," Elizabeth said, suddenly.
"Well, I don't have such nice clothes. I thought you might like this clo', though." Peggy stood up to be admired. "It's my best bib and tucker. See, this is the bib," she indicated the square of cobwebby lace and lawn under her bronze chin, "and this is the tucker." She turned around, to show its counterpart in the back. "That's really what I bought it for, I couldn't decide between this pink linen and a gray dotted swiss until I realized that this was a bib and tucker. Which of course settled it at once. By the way, I know something very funny." Peggy barely took a breath between sentences. "I wonder if you know it, too. My sister Ruth knows your brother John quite well. They wrote to each other all the time that he was abroad. I just found out that he was your brother by the merest accident."
"You don't mean that Ruth Farraday is your sister! Why, Buddy's known her for years."
"Can't he have known my sister for years?"
"Yes, I suppose so, but it doesn't seem possible. I thought he met that girl in Boston."
"I live in Boston. If you've got a sample of your brother's handwriting, I can prove to you that my Ruth is the girl. I've taken in his letters for years."
Elizabeth produced the precious morning missive by the simple process of diving into the neck of her blouse. Peggy bent over the letter.
"It's the same," she said. "Oh, is he going to be an awful lot better soon? Ruthie has been dreadfully worried, I know, though she hasn't said much about it. She's the still member of the family, you see."
"What does she look like?"
"Oh, she's darlingly pretty, with great blue eyes and long golden lashes, and lovely colour that comes and goes, and she dresses sort of quaintly. She looks well in fringes and sashes and droopy things. I have to wear boys' clothes, almost, to set off my peculiar style of beauty, but you mustn't judge Ruthie by me. She's really a star."