Disregarding this, Mrs. Adams looked her over thoughtfully. “I can't see why you don't wear more colour,” she said. “At your age it's becoming and proper, too. Anyhow, when you're going on the street, I think you ought to look just as gay and lively as you can manage. You want to show 'em you've got some spunk!”
“How do you mean, mama?”
“I mean about Walter's running away and the mess your father made of his business. It would help to show 'em you're holding up your head just the same.”
“Show whom!”
“All these other girls that——”
“Not I!” Alice laughed shortly, shaking her head. “I've quit dressing at them, and if they saw me they wouldn't think what you want 'em to. It's funny; but we don't often make people think what we want 'em to, mama. You do thus and so; and you tell yourself, 'Now, seeing me do thus and so, people will naturally think this and that'; but they don't. They think something else—usually just what you DON'T want 'em to. I suppose about the only good in pretending is the fun we get out of fooling ourselves that we fool somebody.”
“Well, but it wouldn't be pretending. You ought to let people see you're still holding your head up because you ARE. You wouldn't want that Mildred Palmer to think you're cast down about—well, you know you wouldn't want HER not to think you're holding your head up, would you?”
“She wouldn't know whether I am or not, mama.” Alice bit her lip, then smiled faintly as she said:
“Anyhow, I'm not thinking about my head in that way—not this morning, I'm not.”
Mrs. Adams dropped the subject casually. “Are you going down-town?” she inquired.