“There is something so manly in his look; he is a real man!” quoted the twelve-year-old.
“He!” came the voice of the middle one again. “Why, he goes and pours eau de cologne on himself. The other day his gloves were lying there and just simply reeking with millefleur.”
“Every perfection!” breathed the twelve-year-old in ecstasy, and staggered back as though overcome with emotion.
They addressed all these remarks to each other and pretended not to notice Gerda, who stood at a little distance, blushing furiously, as she poked the ground with her yellow stick. Suddenly she lifted her head.
“You’re a pair of naughty hussies,” she said, “to talk like that about some one who is too good to look at you.”
“And yet you know he is only a mortal,” remonstrated the eldest of the three mildly, as if to make peace.
“No, he is nothing of the kind.”
“And surely he has his faults,” continued the sister, pretending not to hear what Gerda said.
“But, my dear Gerda, you know he never goes to church.”