Charley had swung herself up to the footboard of the old walnut bed that Lottie herself had cream-enamelled. A slim, pliant young thing, this Charley, in her straight dark blue frock. She was so misleadingly pink and white and golden that you neglected to notice the fine brow, the chin squarish in spite of its soft curves, the rather deep-set eyes. From her perch Charley's long brown-silk legs swung friendlily. You saw that her stockings were rolled neatly and expertly just below knees as bare and hardy as a Highlander's. She eyed her aunt critically.
"Why in the world do you wear corsets, Lotta?" (This "Lotta" was a form of affectation and affection.)
"Keep the ol' tum in, of course. I'm no lithe young gazelle like you."
"Gained a little, haven't you—this winter?"
"I'm afraid I have." Lottie was stepping into the blue silk and dancing up and down as she pulled it on to keep from treading on it. "I don't get enough exercise, that's the trouble. That darned old electric!"
Charley faced her sternly from the footboard. "Well, if you will insist on being the Family Sacrifice. Making a 'bus line of yourself between here and the market—the market and the park—the park and our house. The city ought to make you pay for a franchise."
"Now—Charley——"
"Oh, you're disgusting, that's what you are, Lotta Payson! You practically never do anything you really want to do. You're so nobly self-sacrificing that it's sickening. It's a weakness. It's a vice."
"Yes ma'am," said Lotta gravely. "And if you kids don't do, say, and feel everything that comes into your heads you go around screaming about inhibitions. If you new-generation youngsters don't yield to every impulse you think you're being stunted."
"Well, I'd rather try things and find they're bad for me than never try them at all. Look at Aunt Charlotte!"