"You going to work?" asked her mother.
"Wash my hair."
"You're always washing ... washing, you call it!" cried Mrs. Minto.
Sally ignored the sneer, and proceeded to her occupation. There was a silence. Mrs. Minto yawned. She looked at Sally making her preparations, and into her face came a watchful anxiety that was mingled with profound esteem. There was a chic about her girl that made Mrs. Minto assume this expression quite often, and Sally knew it. She knew it now, and was elaborately unconscious of it. As she waited for the kettle and moved the lamp so that it would illumine the washstand, she whistled to show how blind she was to any sign of emotion from her mother. When the whistle was unavailing, she said sharply:
"Don't you think this is a pretty frock, ma?"
Mrs. Minto sighed heavily, and pulled herself up out of her chair.
"Far too pretty, if you ask me," she said. "Looks to me fast." She was full of concern, and did not try to hide it from Sally.
"Oo!" cried Sally. "You are stupid, ma!" And with that she whipped the dress over her head and revealed the fact that she wore no petticoat. Her mother was the more outraged.
Sally began to sing.
| "'When you and I go down the love path together, |
| Stars shall be shining and the night so fair.'" |