"Why, I should hope not," replied Eugenia. "You don't want him to be the laughing-stock of the people, do you?"
"Oh, I'm not anxious for him to be anything," said Nan, "but you know I've always said that I never would marry a man unless he wore a red feather in his hat, and a red sash over his shoulder."
"When I was a child," remarked Eugenia, "I always said I would like to marry a pirate—a man with a long black beard, a handkerchief tied around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes, and a shining sword in one hand and a pistol in the other."
"Oh, did you?" cried Nan, snuggling closer to her friend. "Let's talk about it. I am beginning to be very old, and I want to talk about things that make me feel young again."
But they were not to talk about their childish ideals that day, for a knock came on the door, and Margaret Gaither was announced—Margaret, who seemed to have no ideals, and who had confessed that she never had had any childhood. She came in dignified and sad. Her face was pale, and there was a weary look in her eyes, a wistful expression, as if she desired very much to be able to be happy along with the rest of the people around her.
The two girls greeted her very cordially. Both were fond of her, and though they could not understand her troubles, she had traits that appealed to both. She could be lively enough on occasion, and there was a certain refinement of manner about her that they both tried to emulate—whenever they could remember to do so.
"I heard Nan was here," she said, with a beautiful smile, "and I thought I would run over and see you both together."
"That is a fine compliment for me," Eugenia declared.
"Miss Jealousy!" retorted Margaret, "you know I am over here two or three times a week—every time I can catch you at home. But I wish you were jealous," she added with a sigh. "I think I should be perfectly happy if some one loved me well enough to be jealous."
"You ought to be very happy without all that," said Nan.