“But may not two of us come with you?” asked Josephine. “We should love to see the pretty things in Madame Declassé’s show-room.”
“No, no; I must see her alone; she will do it cheaper for me if I am alone.”
Brenda skipped away, and the girls were left in charge of the dull, over-worked little pony with the western sun beating down upon them. They had certainly passed an exciting day, but, on the whole, they were not quite satisfied. There was a mutinous feeling in each small breast which only needed the match of suspicion to set it on fire. It was Nina who, in the most casual voice, applied that match.
“I am looking at myself,” she said, “in the mirror let into the pony trap just facing us; and I am awfully red.”
“Of course you are, Nina,” laughed both her sisters.
“My face is red,” continued Nina, “and so is my hair; and my eyes are not at all big. Do you think I am really pretty, or am I ugly?”
She gave an anxious glance at Josephine and Fanchon.
“Ugly—of course,” laughed Fanchon.
“Very ugly—a little fright,” said Josephine.
“Then if I am a fright,” said Nina, becoming a more vivid crimson, “so are you, too, for you are red also, and your hair is sandy, and you have very small eyes.”