“No. I think I like little ones best. I never saw any ’bout my size ’cept Beatrice, and—and—you,” concluded Steenie, stammering in her confusion over saying something that even to her untrained ears sounded “not just right.”
“My! Aren’t you polite! Well, what can you expect, my mother says, of a girl that’s lived in California amongst cow-boys.”
“Cow-boys are nicer—nicer than—nice! I love them, every one!” cried this loyal Santa Felisan.
“You’d ought to be ashamed!”
“Why?”
“Oh, because. Say, has Beatrice Courtenay been to see you?”
“Yes. Once.”
“You thought you did something smart, didn’t you? Ma said it was disgraceful for a girl to get talked about like you have been.”
Steenie stared in amazement, then bethought herself of her grandmother’s parting advice: “Be pleasant to all, as is natural to you; but do not have much to say to any girl until you have learned her name. I wish you to make only the right friends, and I can tell you about all the families—if not all the children—in town. It is wise to select your playmates from households of gentlewomen. ‘Even a child is known by the company he keeps.’”
“Will you please tell me your name, miss girl?”