Her hair was under the hood, but she hid her face behind the woman.
“I—I don’t know,” she said softly. The woman laughed.
“Why, yes, you do, Cissy,” she reproved. “Tell him directly, now.”
She put one tiny finger in her mouth.
“I—I gueth I live on Chethnut Thtreet,” she called as the door slammed and shut her in.
His sister amicably offered him half the plush bag to carry, and opened a running criticism of the afternoon.
“Did you ever see anybody act like that Frannie Leach? She’s awfully rough. Miss Dorothy spoke to her twice—wasn’t that dreadful? What made you dance all the time with Cissy Weston? She’s an awful baby—a regular ’fraid-cat! We girls tease her just as easy—do you like her?”
“She’s the prettiest one there!” he said.
His sister stared at him.
“Why, Dick Pendleton, she is not! She’s so little—she’s not half so pretty as Agnes, or—or lots of the girls. She’s such a baby. She puts her finger in her mouth if anybody says anything at all. If you ask her a single thing she does like this: ‘I don’t know, I don’t know!’”