“I like both, profoundly.”
She was all in white—fluffy hat, linen shirt-waist, duck skirt, and low shoes. Her hair was done into some sort of knot on her neck—Fessenden was rather weak at deciphering a girl’s coiffure. Her eyes shone wonderfully clear, and her smiles were frequent but uncertain, as if she bubbled with jokes too ethereal to share even with him.
“Betty,” he said, “do you mind my remarking that you look adorable to-day?”
“Only to-day?”
“Always, you witch! Betty, don’t tell me that any mere district school made half of you.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it sounds a bit impertinent of me, but your voice—your talk—your dress! And, above all, you have the air—ah——”
“Of a lady, Mr. Critic?”
“Exactly. One doesn’t expect to find l’air distingué in a farmer’s daughter.”
“A farmer’s niece.”