“No thanks,” she answered, carelessly, without turning her head. “Li, you’ve got awfully thin. Don’t you eat enough? Have you got a good cook?”
“I’m the cook,” said Minnie, with her wide, bright smile, “I hope I’m a good one.”
“Rather!” cried Lionel. “She’s a wonder, Julie.”
“Is she?” said Julie. “That’s nice. I’ve never met a cook before.”
Now that was warning enough; it was a challenge and not a subtle one either. But no one ventured to pick up her gage; certainly not Horace or Lionel, they were terrified. Not Minnie; she was very wary of such an adversary.
Julie’s careless glance swept the sober little figure from head to foot.
“Let’s see your doll’s house, Li,” she said. “It’s the smallest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He got up, reluctantly. She really was a bit too—too obvious. He thought perhaps he’d speak to her, tactfully. And yet it was so good to see her, and her beauty and vividness, a breath from a vanished life. He couldn’t help a feeling of kinship with her, which was not loyal to Minnie. He saw so plainly how the house must look to her, and how Minnie appeared. Understood what she was thinking.
He led her into the dining-room, furnished with a proper little “set” of light oak, the stupidest sort of room, neither pretty nor comfortable. He opened and hastily closed the door of the kitchen, which was evidently not prepared for inspection; then he took her upstairs to see three small bedrooms, with cheap white iron beds.
She stopped him in the doorway of the last of these distressing rooms and put her hands on his shoulders, looking into his face with her wonderful eyes.