“Yes it is—sandy, anyhow. And I’m really much obliged to you, Betty, for forgetting it. I wish I could.”
“Never mind, Virgie, I’ve a lot of white elder and some pretty green and I’ll pick some buttercups and Canada lilies—you’ll be a ‘symphony’ in white and gold. Don’t worry. Your beau’ll send you the prettiest bouquet of the lot,” said Betty, laughing, and put her arm around the shoulder of the little “forlorn hope” who had been so sensitive, so hungry for love and praise, and who had worshipped at the shrine of these older girls as much as ever Isabel, or Avalon Moore, had done. Even Marion Thurman, who in speech and manner was as nearly the opposite of the talkative little Westerner as could be, had taken a great fancy to both Isabel and Virginia and enjoyed their quite frequent visits.
“Listen, Marion; say your name for me, please.”
Marion complied.
“There! What did I tell you, Isabel. She can say r, just doesn’t in certain places. She gets it in Marion, but leaves it out in ‘Thuhman’. See?”
“All right Virgie, you win. Say f-l-o-o-r, Marion.”
Goodnaturedly Marion repeated the word, for these youngsters amused her, and secure of her Bostonian background, she it was who thought their speech peculiar.
“‘Flo-uh’,” repeated Isabel. “Evelyn calls it ‘flo’. Isn’t it the most interesting thing?”
“Turn about is fair play,” said Marion. “How do you pronounce w-a-t-e-r?”
“Wawter,” replied Isabel promptly.