Her early promise of good looks was more than fulfilled, and in this long, pale blue muslin, and “picture” hat, cornflower-trimmed, she looked a fresh enough young beauty to be queen of a season. The golden hair had deepened, and was twisted up in the careful, careless way fashion dictated. The complexion was wonderfully pure and bright for Australia, and the eyes were just as dewy and soft and sweetly lashed as ever.
But not yet sixteen! Was ever such an impossible age for grown-up rights? Just because she was tall and gracefully built was no reason why she should consider herself fit to be “out,” Meg contended—especially, she added, with a touch of sisterly sarcasm, as she had a weakness for spelling “believe” and “receive” in unorthodox ways, and was still floundering wretchedly through her first French author—Le Chien du Capitaine.
Poppet’s legs dashed across the gravel path under the window; Peter’s copper-toed boots in hot pursuit shone for a second and vanished.
“Where’s Baby, I wonder?” Meg said to herself.
The child had been playing with a chair a little time back, dragging it up and down the verandah and bumping it about noisily; now all was silent. [14] ]She went to the foot of the stairs, one of Bunty’s socks more “holey” than righteous drawn over her hand.
“What you doing, Essie?” she called.
“Nosing, Mig,” said a little sweet voice from a bedroom,—“nosing at all.”
“Now, Essie!”—Meg’s voice took a stern note,—“tell me what you are doing!”
“Nosing,” said the little voice; [“I’se velly] dood.”
“Quite sure, Essie?”