Her mother’s shadow, falling across her, brought up her eyes in a quick flash of recognition.
“Oh, mama, the darlings! Look! The angels! See him snap! Do look—now, mama! Oh, you didn’t look quick enough!”
Mrs. Budd’s eyes absently took in the encircling shrubbery, the walk to their right, thinly veiled with straggling fennel, and came back to her daughter’s lovely face with a sort of puzzled helplessness.
“Yes, pettie, yes; they’re very nice. But what a way to spend the morning!”
Julia sat back on her heels. Her great brows, curved to a peak, spelled innocent interrogation.
“For mercy’s sake, why not, mama?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” Mrs. Budd began with a gush, trailing off dimly—“but with so many people about—people to be pleasant to—why shouldn’t you just—be pleasant?”
“Pleasant? Am I not pleasant, mama? To whom?”
“Why, everybody, dearie; and—Mr. Thair!”
“But I am pleasant to Charlie Thair, mama. I’m very, very pleasant.”