“Dr. Morton had to come to see Mother, and he told us. He told us all about that Mr. Stanwood, too. He’s nearly well. Dr. Morton says he’s so handsome all the girls in town will mob him; and there you will be right on the inside. Some people’s luck!”
“Oh, don’t—I don’t want to see him,” said Millicent, so genuinely aghast that the girl with the bobbed hair laughed.
“Why, perhaps you’ll see that dressing-gown. He must have been the one she was buying it for.”
“Damaris, did I tell you about that dressing-gown?” The girl’s tone was tragic.
“Why, of course—you were telling me only last night the way you met Miss Frink.”
Millicent caught her breath. “Never speak of it again, Damaris.”
“How exciting!” The flapper’s eyes sparkled. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Millicent’s usual serenity had entirely vanished. “It’s dangerous to have to do with powerful people, that’s all. I was so safe in the glove section and my customers liked me”—another sob caught in the speaker’s throat. “Everything is your fault, Grandpa, if your eyes hadn’t been injured in the Cuban War I shouldn’t have begun to read aloud when I was knee-high to a grasshopper and I shouldn’t read so well—and you never tell me anything, and—Damaris, I lay awake last night thinking that if I did leave the gloves, you ought to have my place. What could we do with your hair!”
Damaris shook it ruefully.