“In the winter they’ve got long brown coats, with little bits here—you know.”
“You mean a yoke?”
“I don’t know what you call it, mother—little bits, and skirts from it, and poke bonnets, and brown wool gloves; brown stockings and brown shoes, and little brown muffs. Oh, they really are awfully queer!”
“And in the summer?”
“In the summer? Well, in the summer they wear brown holland things. They’re queer, mother, I can’t tell you any more—they’re queer.”
“I see,” said the mother. “But in themselves,” she persisted, “what are they like in themselves?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Nobody likes them much.”
“Poor children! I wish you would be a little kind to them.”
“Do you?” said the girl, rather wistfully. “Well, I will if you like, but it would be an awful bore, and they wouldn’t thank us.”
“I see,” said the mother. But she was wrong; she only thought she saw.