When Cheriton came back from Elderthwaite he found the whole party by the hall fire in the full tide of discussion and chatter, Nettie on the rug with Buffer in her arms complaining of the white muslin.
“Sha’n’t I look horrid, Rupert?”
“Frightful; but as you’ll be sure to bring Buffer into the ball-room he’d tear anything more magnificent.”
“I sha’n’t bring in Buffer! Rupert, what an idea! He’ll be shut up, poor darling! But at least I may turn up my hair, and I shall. I’m quite tall enough.”
“Turn your hair up? Don’t you do anything of the sort, Nettie. Little girls are fashionable, and yellow manes and muslin frocks will carry the day against wreaths and silk dresses. You let your hair alone, and then people will know it’s all real by-and-by.”
“Well, I’d much rather turn it up,” said Nettie simply.
“Well, perhaps I would,” said Rupert. “Fellows might say you let it down on purpose.”
Rupert conveyed a great deal of admiration of the golden locks in his tone, but Nettie, though vain enough, was insensible to veiled flattery.
“Plait it up, Nettie,” said Cherry briefly.
“If anybody thought I did such a nasty, mean, affected thing as that I’d never speak to him again. Never! I’d cut it all off sooner,” cried Nettie.