Miss Naylor stared, wrinkling her nose, and holding the scissors wide apart....
“Last night,” said Greta slowly, “I and Chris went to his studio and took his pictures, and so, because the gate was shut, I came back to tell it; and when you asked me where Chris was, I told it; because she was in the studio all night, and I and Scruff sat up all night, and in the morning we brought the pictures, and hid them under our beds, and that is why—we—are—so—sleepy.”
Over the rose-bush Miss Naylor peered down at her; and though she was obliged to stand on tiptoe this did not altogether destroy her dignity.
“I am surprised at you, Greta; I am surprised at Christian, more surprised at Christian. The world seems upside down.”
Greta, a sunbeam entangled in her hair, regarded her with inscrutable, innocent eyes.
“When you were a girl, I think you would be sure to be in love,” she murmured drowsily.
Miss Naylor, flushing deeply, snipped off a particularly healthy bud.
“And so, because you are not married, I think—”
The scissors hissed.
Greta nestled down again. “I think it is wicked to cut off all the good buds,” she said, and shut her eyes.