“Tush! Nonsense it is yo’re talkin’ now, Harry boy. Yo’ wouldn’t want to be puttin’ on overalls, would ye, an’ be milkin’ ol’ Brindle?”
But Harold was in dead earnest, they were finally convinced, and when at last he started away along the beach it was with the understanding that he was to return the first of June to be Farmer Warner’s “helper.”
CHAPTER XVII.
PRIDE MEETS PRIDE
“Well, thanks be there are only two more weeks of incarceration in this prison.”
Gwynette Poindexter-Jones was in no pleasant mood as her two companions could easily discern. “I would simply expire of ennui if I had to remain here one day longer. When I think that Ma Mere, after having had a wonderful winter in France, is now arriving in San Francisco, where I suppose she will remain for a time, I feel as though I never can stand the stupid routine of this place even a fortnight longer. And the truth is, I don’t know as I will. I wrote Mother that I had refused to take the final tests. I cannot see why I should care for a diploma from this seminary, or any other, since I am next year to become a debutante in San Francisco’s best society. One doesn’t have to pass an examination in history, thank heavens, to make an eligible marriage. Beauty is far more requisite.”
“And I suppose you are quite satisfied with yourself on that score.” It was Beulah Hollingsworth who made this sarcastic remark. The three girls were seated in the summer-house on the lawn of the seminary waiting for the arrival of the rural postman. A box of chocolates lay open on the table before them, and, spread about it, were books and magazines. Patricia Sullivan, to the displeasure of at least one of her friends, was reading a romance of the West. She had not heard the remarks of her companions until the last sentence had been uttered and the tone in which it had been said made her look up and exclaim: “What is the matter, Beulah? Your disposition used to be quite amiable, but it certainly is changing. Are you living on vinegar?”
Gwynette tossed her head. “Her favorite pastime seems to be finding something to be sarcastic about. Of course I know that I am no rare beauty, but I do believe that I can hold my own.”
Beulah reached over and took an especially luscious looking chocolate. As she did so, the driveway for a moment was in her vision. A crunching of wheels attracted her attention and she saw an old-fashioned wagon drawn by a heavy white horse. A girl, dressed in yellow and wearing a wide-brimmed hat wreathed with buttercups, was the driver. Beulah said: “If you would like to see a girl who has real claim to beauty, cast your glance out of the summer-house.”
Patricia closed her book and, rising, sauntered to the rose-hung doorway. Turning, she said in a low voice: “Gwyn, isn’t that the girl we saw at your Rocky Point Farm?”
Indignant, because Jenny Warner’s beauty had been compared with her own, Gwynette replied with great indifference, as she purposely turned her back: “I neither know nor care. I have no interest in my mother’s servants.”