“Ha-ha-a-a-a!” chortled Sophie, proudly. With a toss of her head, she went out.
Phœbe opened her book at random. Perhaps it was even upside down—she scarcely knew. However it was, she became intensely engrossed in it, so that she did not even glance up when the door to the hall opened and Sophie returned.
“I found her, Miss Finnegan,” announced Sophie, in her best receiving manner.
“Phœbe!” gushed Miss Finnegan. She burst past Sophie. “Phœbe! You darling! Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”
Phœbe let her book drop, still open, to her knees. Very carefully she put one forefinger on the line she was supposed to be reading. Then she raised eyes that had in them mild surprise, and just a trace of sweet bewilderment.
“Oh! How do you do,” she answered politely; and got up. “Please excuse me. I—I get so interested in my books. This is ‘Kenilworth,’ by Sir Walter Scott. Of course you’ve read it.”
“‘Kenilworth’?” said Genevieve. “Why, no.”
“You haven’t?” returned Phœbe, shocked. “Oh, my, that’s too bad. After a while, when you’re grown up, you’ll wish you’d read it. A girl can’t be just fluffy. And a woman mustn’t be fluffy. We must know things, and we must be wise and—and as much like Miss Ruth Shepard as we can possibly be.”
Genevieve blinked, trying to comprehend this onrush of ideas.
Phœbe put her head on one side and smiled. “Oh, I do so enjoy the classics,” she declared.