Cornelia felt her heart sinking.
“What kind of a girl, Louie?”
“Oh, a girl with flour on her face, and an awful tight skirt; and when she goes out evenings, she wears her back bare way down almost to her waist. I saw her in a concert at our church, and she was dressed that way there; and folks were all looking at her, and saying it wasn’t nice. She dances, too, and kicks, with lots of skirts and ruffles and things, made of chiffon; and she makes eyes at boys; and I know a girl at school that says she saw her smoking cigarettes at a restaurant once. You see it isn’t much use to fix up Carey’s room when he does things like that. He doesn’t deserve it.”
Cornelia looked aghast.
“Oh, but we must, Louie! We must all the more then. And perhaps the girl isn’t so bad if we knew her, and—and tried to help her. Some girls are awfully silly at a certain age, dear.”
“Well, you oughtta see her. Harry knows, and he thinks she’s the limit. He says the boys all talk about her. She paints her face, too, and wears big black earrings down on her shoulders sometimes, and she wears her hair just like the pictures of the devil!”
Cornelia had to laugh at the earnest, fierce little face; and the laugh broke the tension somewhat.
“Well, dearie, we’ll have to find a way to coax Carey back to us,” she said soothingly, even while her heart was sinking. “He’s our brother, you know; and we love him, and it would break mother’s heart.”
“Oh, I know,” sighed the little girl. “I’ve tried to think of something; but we’re so poor, and this house is dreadful. Of course, it’s a lot better than State Street, though,” she said, brightening.
“It is?” Cornelia’s voice conveyed dismay.