Mrs. Lathrop continued to look very hard at Maida. Her eyes wandered over the little blue frock—simple but of the best materials—over the white “tire” of a delicate plaided nainsook, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, the string of blue Venetian beads, the soft, carefully-fitted shoes.
“Mr. Westabrook has a little girl, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Lathrop said.
Maida felt extremely uncomfortable now. But she looked Mrs. Lathrop straight in the eye. “Yes,” she answered.
“About your age?”
“Yes.”
“She is an invalid, isn’t she?”
“She was,” Maida said with emphasis.
Mrs. Lathrop did not ask any more questions. She went presently into the back library. An old gentleman sat there, reading.
“That little girl who keeps the store at the corner is in there, playing with Laura, father,” she said. “I guess her grandmother was a servant in ‘Buffalo’ Westabrook’s family, for they traveled abroad a year with the Westabrook family. Evidently, they give her all the little Westabrook girl’s clothes—she’s dressed quite out of keeping with her station in life. Curious how refinement rubs off—the child has really a good deal of manner. I don’t know that I quite like to have Laura playing with her, though.”
The two little girls returned after awhile to the playroom.