“Why ain’t I seen your friend Lily so much lately?” asked Mrs. Grimes, languidly, the evening of the day Hester had plunged into the sewer and rescued little Johnny Doyle.
“Oh, between dancing school and Purt Sweet, Lil has about got her silly head turned,” said Hester, tossing her own head.
“My goodness me!” drawled Mrs. Grimes, “that child doesn’t take young Purt Sweet seriously, does she?”
“Whoever heard of anybody’s taking Pretty seriously?” laughed Hester. “Only Pretty himself believes that he has anything in his head but mush! Last time Mrs. Pendleton had an evening reception, Purt got an invite, and went. Something happened to him—he knocked over a vase, or trod on a lady’s dress, or something awkward—and the next afternoon Lil caught him walking up and down in front of their house, trying to screw up courage enough to ring the bell.
“‘What’s the matter, Purt?’ asked Lily, going up to him.
“‘Oh, Miss Lily!’ cries Purt. ‘What did your mother say when you told her I was sorry for having made a fool of myself at the party last night?’
“‘Why,’ says Lil, ‘she said she didn’t notice anything unusual in your actions.’
“Wasn’t that a slap? And now Lil is letting Purt run around with her and act as if he owned her—just because he’s a good dancer.”
“My dear!” yawned her mother. “I should think you’d join that dancing class.”
“I’ll wait till I’m asked, I hope,” muttered Hester. “Everybody doesn’t get to join it. We’re not in that set—and we might as well admit it. And I don’t believe we ever will be.”