“What’s yours like?” asked Miss Mar, politely.
“Oh, it’s all pink silk, and I’m sick of it. What made you think of having everything white?”
“This, I believe,” said her hostess, nodding at the climbing white rose that looked in at the window. “But it’s partly that I like things that wash and that don’t fade.”
“Well, I simply love your house. I’d no idea it would be like this.”
“Why, what did you think it would be like?”
“Oh—a—kind of—no, I shan’t say. You’d misunderstand.”
Hildegarde felt it prudent not to insist. If you did, with this young person, you were exposed to the most mortifying results.
“Who are these?” Bella demanded, inspecting the pictures.
“My brothers. That’s Trenn and this is Harry.”
“Will they be at tea?”