"Someone told me," said Margaret, "that your names were Enid and Elaine. Which is which?"
The taller one pointed first to her embroidered bosom, then to her sister.
"I'm Enid; she's Elaine."
"I've read about you in a book of poetry," observed Margaret—"it must have been you! I suppose if you had a little sister her name would be Guinevere?"
The large dark eyes of the two exchanged glances of denial. The small Elaine shook her head decidedly.
"We got a little sister!" announced Enid, "but her name ain't that; it's Katherine."
They were both pretty with the adorable prettiness of small girls, half baby's beauty, and half woman's. But Enid's good looks would always depend more or less upon happy accident—her time of life, her flow of spirits, her fortune in costume. Her face was rather long, with chin and forehead a trifle too pronounced. But the little Elaine was nature's darling. Her softly rounded person and countenance were instinct with charm. Even her little brown hands had delicacy and character. Her white-stockinged legs, from the fine ankles to the rounded knees at her skirt's edge, were turned to a sculptor's desire. Beside them, Enid's merely serviceable legs looked like sticks. The white bows in their hair shared the ensemble effect of each: Enid's perched precisely in the middle, its loops and ends vibrantly and decisively erect; Elaine's drooped a little at one side, its crispness at once confessing and defying evanescence and fragility.
Margaret thrilled with the child's loveliness, but for some subtle reason she smiled chiefly on Enid.
That little lady concluded she must be a person worthy of confidence.
"My doll's name is Clara," she imparted. "An' hers is Isabel, only she calls it 'Ithabel'!"