“Yes,” said Custer, “brother hates himself. He spends hours powdering his nose. Mother found a lip stick and an eyebrow pencil, or whatever you call it, in his dressing table recently; and when he goes to L. A. he has his eyebrows plucked.”
Eva jumped from his knee and stamped her foot.
“I never had my eyebrows plucked!” she cried. “They’re naturally this way.”
“Why the excitement, little one? Did I say you did have them plucked?”
“Well, you tried to make Shannon think so. I got the lip stick and the other things so that if we have any amateur theatricals this winter I’ll have them. Do you know, I think I’ll go on the stage or the screen—wouldn’t it be splishous, though?—‘Miss Eva Pennington is starring in the new and popular success based on the story by Guy Thackeray Evans, the eminent author!’”
“Eminent! He isn’t even imminent,” said Custer.
“Oh, Eva!” cried Shannon, genuine concern in her tone. “Surely you wouldn’t think of the screen, would you? You’re not serious?”
“Oh, yes,” said Custer. “She’s serious—serious is her middle name. To-morrow she will want to be a painter, and day after to-morrow the world’s most celebrated harpist. Eva is nothing if not serious, while her tenacity of purpose is absolutely inspiring. Why, once, for one whole day, she wanted to do the same thing.”
Eva was laughing with her brother and Shannon.
“If she were just like every one else, you wouldn’t love your little sister any more,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “Honestly, ever since I met Wilson Crumb, I have thought I should like to be a movie star.”