"No," said Doris honestly. "One can't think of any two things more different. You are such a—such—"
"Problem," laughed Rosalie. "Don't I know it? Well, you can not solve me, Doris, so don't try. But I am just like those horrible trigonometry nightmares—you can't figure them out to save your life, but they are quite perfectly all right in spite of you."
Doris turned to give her sister a warm adoring look. "I know that," she said happily. "Only, however in the world you manage to say such wonderful things with your eyes, Rosalie—I've tried and tried—alone, of course," she added hastily. "I wouldn't before people for anything. But I can't take people's breath away as you do."
Rosalie's voice rippled into mellow laughter. "You will learn. No, you never will, Doris. You will fall in love, and marry a perfectly adorable man, and have perfectly wonderful babies, and be as happy as the day is long. And I will fritter along and sparkle along, and have a hundred beaus, and Miss Carlton and I will finish up together. There come those bad girls. Now you just scold them, General. Don't you stand for this nonsense any more. Why, I have had to set the table every night for a week."
The younger sisters came into the room together, as they went everywhere together. They were very nearly of the same height, though one was two years older.
"Are you tired, Treasure?" asked Doris quickly.
"I haven't done anything but laugh all afternoon," came the answer. "Why should I be tired?"
Doris looked tenderly from the face of one little sister to the other. Treasure's eyes were clear, serene and limpid. Her delicately tinted olive face was fine and spiritual. And right by her side stood Zee, the baby of the manse, thirteen years old, dark curls a-tangle, dark eyes a-sparkle, red cheeks aglow.
"Oh, you little Imp!" cried Rosalie. "You look just awful."
"I do not think so," said Treasure quickly. "She looks lovely all blown about like that."