Also she spoke to Uncle Bob about the History. “It doesn’t seem like anything for a child,” she complained.
“Pretty dry—after the movies?” he suggested.
Phœbe assented. “I’m used to something exciting.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “But, little old dumpling, later on, when you’re older, you’ll be mighty sorry if you don’t read all these things. The movies are all right—as entertainment. They’re like the dessert at the end of dinner. But don’t fail to know about the substantial things. The day is past when girls need only to be pretty and fluffy. We don’t want fluffy women, either. Great things have just happened on this earth. You must know about them, and you must know about the things that went before them. Uncle Bob wants you to be fine, and good, and wise, and womanly, like—like Miss Ruth, for instance.”
Phœbe remembered that she wanted to ask Sophie about Miss Ruth. Sophie had afternoons off; not Thursday afternoons, like Sally, but occasional ones, when, in her very best coat-suit, with a hat upon which were brick-red plumes, she set forth to shop, or make calls or see a matinée.
Phœbe, going promptly to find and question her, found her descending the back stairs, drawing on, as she went, white gloves that were half a size too small. Her face was shining from a vigorous soaping, as well as with expectancy. Phœbe joined her, and went as far as the gate, bouncing the rubber ball on the way.
“Sophie, what’s a probation officer?” she wanted to know.
“It’s a party that keeps a’ eye on another party,” Sophie declared; “to see if they’re behavin’. Miss Ruth Shepard is one. Your Uncle Bob tells her who to watch, and it’s always some kid.”
Phœbe looked back at the house, and lowered her voice confidentially. “Why did Uncle Bob say he wished Miss Ruth lived at our house?” she asked. “He said he’d been saying she ought to for years and years and years.”
At first Sophie did not answer. But when they reached the gate, past which Phœbe was not to go, Sophie put it between them, then turned to lean upon it.