“I wish you would ask me some question! I don't know how to begin!”
Without a moment's hesitation, Barbara said in response—
“What do you do all day in London?”
“Sew, sew, sit and sew, from morning to night,” answered Alice. “No sooner one thing out of your hands, than another in them, so that you never feel, for all you do, that you've done anything! The world is just as greedy of your work as before. I sometimes wish,” she went on, with a laugh that had a touch of real merriment in it, “that ladies were made with hair like a cat, I am so tired of the everlasting bodice and skirt!—Only what would become of us then! It would only be more hunger for less weariness!—It's a downright dreary life, miss!”
“Have a care!” said Barbara solemnly, and Alice laughed.
“You see,” she said, and paused a moment as if trying to say Barbara, “I'm used to think of ladies as if they were a different creation from us, and it seems rude to call you—Barbara!”
She spoke the name with such a lingering sweetness as made its owner thrill with a new pleasure.
“It seems,” she went on, “like presuming to—to—to stroke an angel's feathers!”
“And much I'd give for the angel,” cried Barbara, “that wouldn't like having his feathers stroked by a girl like you! He might fly for me, and go—where he'd have them singed!”
“Then I will call you Barbara; and I will answer any question you like to put to me!”