"Well, so she ought! Wouldn't you be—if you could make people happy?"
Cynthia threw up her hands. "Happy! Oh, Momma! Are you happy?"
Louise winced.
"Is Daffy? Mademoiselle? Any of you fools? Oh, it's no use talking! You won't believe me when I tell you that she's a cat. Yes, a pussy-cat, Louise! A silky, purring pussy-cat, pawing you, pat—pat—so softly, like kisses. But if you wriggle—my! Look out for claws! Have a candy?"
Louise gathered herself together. She came close to the bed, and leaning over the older girl, spoke—
"I don't understand what you're driving at—but you're wrong. It's you that's a fool. You misjudge her, utterly. You don't understand her—you're not fit to."
"Are you?" Cynthia laughed at her openly.
"Of course not. No one—Daffy does, of course. But us?—girls? Just because she's been heavenly to you, you take advantage, to watch her, to judge, to twist all she says and does. Why do you hate her so?"
"I don't." Cynthia pulled herself upright. "My dear, you're wrong there. I like her immensely. She's a real treat. But I don't worship her like you do."
"I don't! I—I just love her." Louise glowed.