Dotty of sterner stuff sat stiffly still, now and then turning a page of her book with utmost deliberation. Then her foot went to sleep, and she wanted to get up and dance on it. Of course, there was no reason why she shouldn’t dance on it to her heart’s content, but if you are acquainted with the peculiar etiquette of “getting mad,” you know she would have endured torture before she would have done anything that could have been construed as sociable.
So the two silly things sat there, each trying to study, pretending to study, and really wondering what the other was thinking.
At last the burned out fire required mending. With a furtive glance at Dotty, Dolly got up, sauntered to the wood-box, selected a log with care, and laid it carefully on the embers of the expiring ones glowing among the ashes.
Dotty jumped up, glad of a chance to step on her sleeping foot, and seizing the poker, jammed Dolly’s log into place so fiercely that it fell down between the andirons.
“I’ll ’tend to the fire,” said Dolly, coldly, for a speech of this sort was entirely permissible.
“You think you know all about fire-making, don’t you? Well, that big log will never burn without a stick of kindling-wood.”
“It would, if you’d let it alone. You always poke a fire till you put it out!”
“I don’t either! I had the fire all right, till you came over and bothered with it.”
“Well, then, fix it yourself, smarty, if you know so much!”
Dolly flounced back to her chair and sat down. Usually gentle, and even-tempered, when Dolly did get stirred up, she was so miserable, all through, that she couldn’t control herself. And now, she knew that if she staid there with Dotty, in those strained relations, she would very shortly burst into uncontrollable tears.