"Where else did you and Jack go to-night beside the German village?" she asked.
"Nowhere."
"You took supper there and stayed all the evening?"
"Yes. We really couldn't tear ourselves away. It was like being in some romantic old story."
Mildred smiled and hummed her favorite bit from Iolanthe.
"No indeed," answered Clover. "I am not his mother. He doesn't pretend that I am, and he doesn't wish me to be: so your little song doesn't fit the case at all."
She did not look at her sister, but went on with her effort to braid her rebellious hair. Mildred ceased humming.
"I wish my hair was curly," she said at last.
"We all have our gifts," replied Clover. Mildred thought her tone sounded unusually complacent. It was a novel experience to feel aught but compassion, or tenderness, or reverent admiration for Clover, but now she suddenly found herself regarding her for the first time as another girl like herself, and observing her attractions with new eyes.
"What a pretty foot you have, Clover," she said, looking at her sister's slippered feet.