Slipping her arm through her mother's, the girl squeezed it to her side.
"I know I'm an outrageous little beast," she said, "but I love shocking you, you dear, funny little mother, and—and you know I love you, don't you?"
"But suppose anyone heard you, dear, what would they think?" There was genuine concern in Mrs. West's voice.
"Oh, I'm dreadfully respectable with other people. I never talk to John Dene about legs or glad-eyes, really." Her eyes were dancing with mischief as she looked down at her mother. "Now I'll promise to be good for the rest of the day; but how can a girl say prunes and prisms with a mouth like mine. It's too wide for that, and then there are those funny little cuts at the corners; they are what make me wicked," she announced with a wise little nod.
Mrs. West sighed once more; she had learned that it was useless to protest when her daughter was in her present mood.
They entered the Gardens, and for an hour walked about absorbing their atmosphere of peace and warmth, sunlight and shadow and the song of birds; the war seemed very far away.
Presently they seated themselves by the broad walk leading to the large tropical greenhouse, and gazed idly at the stream of passers-by.
"I wish I were a girl bird," said Dorothy dreamily, as she listened to the outpourings of a blackbird fluting from a neighbouring tree.
Mrs. West smiled. She was very happy.
"It would be lovely to be made love to like that," continued Dorothy, "so much nicer than—— Mother, darling, look!" she broke off suddenly, clutching Mrs. West's arm. "There's John Dene."