"What a pity you can't wear your hair down all the time, Jo! Men adore hair, don't they? And yours has a regular patina on it, like old bronze."
"Not greenish, I hope," laughed Joan.
"No—sort of orangish. Dark, with an orange lining."
"Betty! It sounds horrible!"
"Well, you know very well it isn't.—May Rossiter thinks you are awfully clever to wear it that simple way, too, so straight and plain, when the rest of us stick out like mops. She says you're awfully clever about lots of things—too smart for the likes of us."
"Does she?" Joan was a little startled and not quite pleased. She had not intended to give the impression of cleverness. It was out of her present rôle entirely. "I wonder what Mrs. Rossiter meant by that?"
"Oh, men, of course," yawned Betty. "You see you've annexed a few of hers, which naturally makes her peevish."
"Have I?" murmured Joan. "Who, for instance?"
"Well, Uncle Neddy, for one."
"Oh! So she was one of his flames, then?"