"I know I'm a horrid little beast," she cried, turning quickly, "and I say outrageous things, don't I?" Then with a sudden change of mood she added: "But why shouldn't a girl be pleased because she's got nice legs, mother?"
"It's not nice for a young girl to talk about legs," said Mrs. West a little primly, making the slightest possible pause before the last words.
"But why, mother?" persisted Dorothy.
"It's—it's not quite nice."
"Well, mine are, anyway," said Dorothy with a little grimace. "Now we must be off."
Mrs. West merely sighed, the sigh of one who fails to understand.
"Mother dear," said Dorothy, observing the sigh, "if I didn't laugh I'm afraid I should cry." All the brightness had left her as she looked down at her mother. "I wonder why it is?" she added musingly.
To Mrs. West, Saturday afternoons were the oases in her desert of loneliness. During the long and solitary days of the week, she looked forward with the eagerness of a child to the excursions Dorothy never failed to plan for her entertainment. If it were dull or wet, there would be a matinee or the pictures; if fine they would go to Kew, Richmond, or the Zoo. It was an understood thing that Mrs. West should know nothing about the arrangement until the actual day itself.
"I think," remarked Dorothy, as they walked across Kew Bridge, "that I must be looking rather nice to-day. That's the third man who has given me the glad-eye since——"
"Oh, Dorothy! I wish you wouldn't say such dreadful things," protested Mrs. West in genuine distress.