Gladys sat back and regarded her in wonder. Here was a new side coming to light. Katherine the unromantic; Katherine the prosaic; the independent, the hater of sentimental reading, devouring love stories all of a sudden! Gladys drew pictures in the sand and pondered on the meaning of it.
Katherine read on absorbedly for ten minutes, then she laid the book down abruptly. “Gladys,” she said, “I want you to tell me something.”
“What is it?” asked Gladys, pausing in the middle of an intricate pattern.
“What is the matter with me?” asked Katherine.
“What’s the matter with you?” repeated Gladys. “There isn’t anything the matter with you. You’re a dear.”
“There is, too,” said Katherine. “Somehow all the girls I read about in books are different. You’re like the girls in books and so is Hinpoha and so are 139 the rest of you, but I’m not. I’m big and awkward and homely, and that’s all I’ll ever be.”
“No, you’re not,” declared Gladys. “You’re the most fun that ever happened.”
“That’s just the trouble,” said Katherine, drawing up her knees and clasping her bony hands around them. “Everybody thinks I’m a joke, and that’s all. Nobody ever admired me. People think I’m a cross between a lunatic asylum and a circus. I’m so tired of hearing people say, ‘What a funny girl that Katherine Adams is! She’s a perfect scream!’ They never say ‘What a nice looking girl,’ or ‘What a charming girl,’ the way they always do about you and Hinpoha. I do wish somebody admired me once without being so desperately amused! Now I want you to tell me exactly what’s the matter with my looks. Something’s wrong, I know.” And she looked wistfully through the strands of hair that were falling over her eyes.
Gladys sat up and regarded her fondly. “Dear, fly-away, come-to-pieces Katherine!
“Do you mind if I make a few criticisms?” she asked gently.