She wrote a plaintively humorous letter to Nina Sidell, whose Violet was just Andrée’s age. Violet was a frightful worry, in a way her daughters would never be. Wasn’t that something else to her credit? Then there was Connie Martinsburgh, whose four exuberant and handsome children were all troublesome. Perhaps, although she seemed to herself so entirely negative, she did after all exert a good influence over her family.... That absurd young Stephens had upset her, with his terrific vitality; he had made her feel so pallid, so helpless, so useless. Poor Breath of Life, with his gold cigarette case!
§ iii
They returned from their “ramble” early in the afternoon, and the girls at once went upstairs to lie down. They were much more fatigued than they cared to admit.
“Lord! What a cyclone!” said Edna, taking the pins from her crisp, reddish hair and letting it fall about her bare shoulders. “He can do everything and he knows everything. That lecture about coniferous trees ...! And yet he’s amusing.”
Andrée was stretched flat on her back on the bed.
“He’s more than amusing,” she said, with a frown. “He’s very fine. He’s a man.”
“Oh, hardly that!” said Edna, slipping into her kimono. She was startled by her sister suddenly sitting upright.
“You silly little snob!” she cried. “You make me tired! You don’t know anything—you can’t see anything!”
“Oh, Gosh!” thought Edna, in alarm. “I do see something now!”
Andrée went on, to point out to her younger sister the mental or moral excellencies of young Stephens; all in vain. She neglected to mention his endearing smile, that odd, tender look in his blue eyes.