“Lame,” Arthur concluded for her, “like Dicky. But they’re both all right now. Dicky certainly is and Maida was when she left for Europe.”
“I often think,” Harold began again after a little pause, “of when we first met her and she used to talk of the things her father gave her, we thought she was telling lies.”
“I never thought she was telling lies,” Rosie expostulated. “I loved her too much for that. I knew Maida wouldn’t tell lies. I thought she’d just dreamed those things. I remember them all—her mother’s mirror and brush and comb of gold with her initials in diamonds.... And the long string of pearls that she used to wear that came to her knees.... And a dress of cloth of gold trimmed with roses and a diamond, like a drop of dew, in the heart of every rose.”
“Yes, and the peacocks at her father’s place, some of them white,” Arthur interrupted.
“And don’t you remember,” Harold went on, “we all thought she was crazy when she said that once he gave her for a birthday present her weight in twenty-dollar gold-pieces.”
“And a wonderful birthday party,” Laura added eagerly, “with a Maypole and a doll-baby house big enough to go into and live—”
“I don’t wonder we didn’t believe it all,” Rosie declared with conviction, “It sounds like a fairy tale. And then it turned out that she was the daughter of a great millionaire and every word of it was true. Do you remember how we asked Mr. Westabrook at Maida’s Christmas tree if it was all true and he said that it was?”
“I’d like to see those white peacocks,” Dicky said dreamily.
“I’d like to see that doll-baby house,” Laura added wistfully.
“I’d like to see the gold comb and brush and mirror with the diamonds,” Rosie declared, “and that dress with the roses and the diamond dew-drops. I like to look at precious stones. I like things that sparkle.”