The caller eyed her sharply. “Are you tired of reading to me?”
“No, indeed!” The ejaculation was earnest. “But couldn’t she have my place in the gloves, if—if I show you the way I can fix her hair? And she is so attractive, and bright, and pretty, and people would love to have her fit them, and she knows so many people—” The girl stopped, it was so extraordinary to be talking courageously to Miss Frink.
That lady turned toward Colonel Duane. “Your granddaughter would make a good press-agent, wouldn’t she?”
“Yes, Milly would,” he returned, composedly sipping his tea.
“Then if people didn’t believe her she would cry,” remarked Hugh.
“What’s all this about your crying, Millicent?” asked Miss Frink.
“When I’ve done wrong, like making Mr. Stanwood too tired and—and having everybody talk about it, I cry; that’s natural, isn’t it? But never mind his teasing. I wish I could get the place for Damaris.”
“This generation is so full of silly girls,” said Miss Frink. “Hugh, have you your mother’s picture in your pocket?”
He blinked, and colored again. Throwing his long legs out of the hammock, he sat up against the netting. “I didn’t tell you it was Mother,” he blurted out.
“No,” said Miss Frink quietly. “There are a number of things you didn’t tell me.”