“Well,” amiably, “suppose we say half a grain.”
“Suppose we say you are talking nonsense.”
Mollie's air was Dolly's own as she answered her,—people always said she was like Dolly, despite the fact that Dolly was not a beauty at all.
“There may be something in that,” she said.
“Suppose we admit it and return to the subject. Do you think he is nice, Aimée?”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do,” but without getting rose-colored this time.
Aimée looked at her calmly, but with some quiet scrutiny in her glance.
“As nice,” she put it to her,—"as nice as Ralph Gowan?”
She grew rose-colored then in an instant up to her ears again and over them, and she turned her face aside and plucked at the hearth-rug with nervous fingers.