“Two thousand dollars.” Maida said this with a guilty air in spite of her knowledge of her own truth.
Rosie smiled roguishly. “Maida, dear,” she coaxed, “you dreamed it.”
Maida started to her feet. For a moment she came near saying something very saucy indeed. But she remembered in time. Of course nobody in the neighborhood knew that she was “Buffalo” Westabrook’s daughter. It was impossible for her to prove any of her statements. The flash died out of her eyes. But another flash came into her cheeks—the flash of dimples.
“Well, perhaps I did dream it, Rosie,” she said archly. “But I don’t think I did,” she added in a quiet voice.
Rosie turned the subject tactfully. “What are you going to give your father?” she asked.
“That’s bothering me dreadfully,” Maida sighed; “I can’t think of anything he needs.”
“Why don’t you buy him the same thing I’m going to get my papa,” Rosie suggested eagerly. “That is, I’m going to buy it if I make enough money at the fair. Does your father shave himself?”
“Oh, Adolph, his valet, always shaves him,” Maida answered.
Rosie’s brow knit over the word valet—but Maida was always puzzling the neighborhood with strange expressions. Then her brow lightened. “My father goes to a barber, too,” she said. “I’ve heard him complaining lots of times how expensive it is. And the other day Arthur told me about a razor his father uses. He says it’s just like a lawn-mower or a carpet-sweeper. You don’t have to have anybody shave you if you have one of them. You run it right over your face and it takes all the beard off and doesn’t cut or anything. Now, wouldn’t you think that would be fun?”
“I should think it would be just lovely,” Maida agreed. “That’s just the thing for papa—for he is so busy. How much does it cost, Rosie?”