Having mamma's new "cheeks-bottle" concealed in a non-committal box of white pasteboard, Sybil came forth, followed slowly by Dorothy, who had not completed her study of the coiffure worn by one of the waxy beauties with inch-long eyelashes and button-hole mouth, who lived in the window and turned about slowly and steadily all the time the public eye was upon her.
"Just wait, Sybil," said Dorothy, "until her back comes this way again. I'm sure that jug-handle knot is not tied, and yet how can you make a knot of back hair stand up firmly like that without tying it, I should like to know?"
"Why," replied Sybil, "I believe it's done by extremely tight twisting. Haven't you noticed how a tightly twisted cord will double itself back in just that shape, and——"
She got no farther. A cough, "I beg your pardon!" interrupted her. Both girls turned, to face the smiling, bowing William Henry Bulkley, who, ignoring their frowns, hastened to say, with a sort of bluff and fatherly cordiality: "My dear Miss Lawton—Miss Dorothy—I hesitated to recall myself to your memory at our first meeting this morning, as I saw with regret you had quite forgotten me. [This is the sort of thing that keeps Truth at the bottom of her well.] But this second accidental meeting seems so like a Providence restoring a valued friendship that I venture to address you with messages to my old-time friend and neighbor, John Lawton!"
"Yes?" softly queried Dorothy, but Sybil, with back-thrown head, regarded him with an angry suspicion he could have shaken her for. Still he proceeded, blandly: "A man I highly esteemed, and have long hoped to meet again. You have, then [regretfully], quite forgotten me? You used to be rather fond of visiting my wife and swinging——"
"Oh, Mrs. Bulkley!" exclaimed Dorothy, catching Sybil's arm. "Don't you remember our fall from the swing, and how good she was to us?" And maliciously interrupted Sybil: "How angry Mr. Bulkley was? Yes, I remember you, sir!"
And looking into each other's eyes, they hated one another right heartily. But Dorothy, thinking only of what a pleasant surprise this finding of an old friend would be to her father, hastened to say: "Papa will remember you well, Mr. Bulkley, I'm sure!"
"Thank you!" beamed that gentleman. "And your charming mamma, how is she? Well? So glad! A very lovely woman. May I ask your present address, and your kind permission to call upon your parents—that, according to our foreign critics, is, I believe, the correct formula, since they declare that parents are governed absolutely by their children in America. Woodsedge? Broadway? Ah, yes—yes, near the new park the city is about opening—quite so! I—I shall do myself the pleasure of driving out to present my compliments to your mamma and renew my friendship with your father. Do allow me, Miss Dorrie—no trouble at all. I am on my way uptown, and I shall esteem it a pleasure to see you young ladies on to your home train."
And almost forcibly removing various packages from both girls' hands, he constituted himself their escort and guardian, feasting his eyes upon the fresh young beauty of Dorothy when the noise prevented talking. At the station he added to their parcels a couple of magazines and a box of chocolates, and, seeing them safely through the door that admitted them to their train's platform, he doffed his hat in farewell. And Dorothy gave him a rather forced smile and hasty good-by, while Sybil, with unsmiling lips, gave a short nod of her haughty young head, and William Henry Bulkley said, low: "You damned little cat," put on his hat again and went out, and, climbing into a car, added to himself: "But the other one—good Lord! When you come to talk about peaches, why——"