She tore up-stairs in great haste, and in a moment more she came tumbling down with her own cologne bottle in her hand. "You'll kill yourself, Jane," her mother called.
"Here!" She seized her brother's handkerchief again and drenched it with a plentiful and vigorous douse. "There!" she said, with great satisfaction, as she restored it to him.
"Goodness, Jane!" Truesdale cried, in laughing protest, "they'll all smell this for fifty feet around."
Jane gave her brother a commendatory pat, and said no word. She felt that he was now ready for conquest. Speech was superfluous.
"No, I can't smell it," said Jane, again; "I think he must have exaggerated. He's going off in the other direction, anyway."
Mrs. Bates touched her elbow. "Who's that dark girl in pink? No; not to the left—straight ahead."
"Why, I declare, it's Rosy!" exclaimed Jane. "And doesn't she look lovely! She's the prettiest girl here, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"And how well that little curly-cue curl on her forehead keeps its shape!
But do you think she should have worn Maréchal Niels?"
"I dare say she's had red until she is tired of them. Who is the young man with her?"