“And your hair—I’d forgot you had such pretty hair—and long—my goodness! What have you gone and done all of a sudden, child?”
His sister stared at him in speechless amazement. Betty herself was almost as astonished.
“I just braided it, instead of pugging it up, and tied it with a ribbon,” she said with gentle eagerness. “Do you really like it so, father?”
“I like it amazing,” he said promptly. “You don’t look so grown-up.”
They sat down to the table. Pogany continued to gaze at his daughter. But his brow clouded.
“What I want to know is how you happened to lose flesh so? It looks a heap better, and yet—I wouldn’t have you starve yourself, Betty. Have you been trying any such wicked doings?” he demanded.
Betty laughed almost wildly. Her aunt snorted again. She dropped the coffee pot as if she feared to trust herself with it and clasped her hands.
“George Pogany! Are you clean out of your head?” she demanded. “Can’t you see? Where are your eyes? Fat—why, the girl looks like a barrel. A barrel! Look at her waist! What do you say to the size of it?”
He looked at Betty’s waist. “Yes, it’s a right smart way round it, Sarah,” he acknowledged. “And yet, somehow, Betty don’t look so big—not near. I could have sworn she’d lost pounds, and that sash shows off all the better.”
He looked musingly at the wide, soft silk scarf. Then he looked at Betty’s sweet, flushed face.