Roberta, already out of the blue-silk gown, released her young sister from the imprisonment of her hooks and eyes.
"His manners are naturally too good to make it clear whether he had a dull time or not," was Roberta's non-committal reply.
"I don't believe his manners are too good to cover up his being bored, if he was bored," Ruth went on. "He certainly wasn't bored all the time, anybody could tell that. He's very good-looking, isn't he?"
"If you care for that sort of good looks—yes."
"What sort?"
"The kind that doesn't express anything—except having had a good time every minute of one's life."
"Why, Rob, what's the matter with you? Anybody would think you had something against poor Mr. Kendrick."
"If he were 'poor Mr. Kendrick' there might be a chance of liking him, for he would have had to do something."
Roberta was pulling out hairpins with energy, and now let the whole dark mass tumble about her shoulders. The half-curling locks were very thick and soft, and as she shook them away from her face she reminded Ruth of a certain wild little Arabian pony of her own.
"You throw back your head just like Sheik when he's going to bolt," Ruth cried, laughing. "I wish my hair were like that. It looks perfectly dear whatever you do with it, and mine's only pretty when it's been put just right."