She reached for a poppy growing in the grass, and the book fell from her knee. Earle picked it up, and saw what it was.
"This!" he exclaimed, in genuine consternation.
Now, Doris absolutely lacked the moral sense that would make her ashamed of the book, or revolt at anything she found therein. But she had native wit, and she saw that she was on the point of instantly losing caste with Earle Moray on account of this literature.
"Eh? What kind is it?" she said, with enchanting simplicity. "I bought it on the train late yesterday, and since I came out here I have been too happy to read it. Isn't it a nice book?"
"I should say not," said Earle.
"How do you know, unless you have read it?"
"I know the author's reputation; and then, the title!"
"Dear me! And so I must not read it?—and my one-and-six-pence gone! Whenever I try to do particularly right, I do wrong. Unlucky, isn't it? Now the last word my French teacher said to me was, 'By all means keep up your French; you have such a beautiful accent.'"
Earle looked relieved. Here was an explanation of exquisite simplicity. There was no spot on this sweet, stainless lily.
Mattie came back.