“I'm walkin',” Jane protested, her face not quite upside down. “Look! I'M walkin' that way, too. My stummick—”
There came an outraged shout from above, and a fierce countenance, stained with ink, protruded from the window.
“Jane!”
“What?”
“Stop that! Stop putting your stomach out in front of you like that! It's disgraceful!”
Both young ladies, looking rather oppressed, resumed the perpendicular. “Why doesn't he like it?” the stranger asked in a tone of pure wonder.
“I don't know,” said Jane. “He doesn't like much of anything. He's seventeen years old.”
After that, the two stared moodily at the ground for a little while, chastened by the severe presence above; then Jane brightened.
“I know!” she exclaimed, cozily. “Let's play callers. Right here by this bush 'll be my house. You come to call on me, an' we'll talk about our chuldren. You be Mrs. Smith an' I'm Mrs. Jones.” And in the character of a hospitable matron she advanced graciously toward the new neighbor. “Why, my dear Mrs. SMITH, come right IN! I THOUGHT you'd call this morning. I want to tell you about my lovely little daughter. She's only ten years old, an' says the brightest THINGS! You really must—”
But here Jane interrupted herself abruptly, and, hopping behind the residential bush, peeped over it, not at Mrs. Smith, but at a boy of ten or eleven who was passing along the sidewalk. Her expression was gravely interested, somewhat complacent; and Mrs. Smith was not so lacking in perception that she failed to understand how completely—for the time being, at least—calling was suspended.