"It's my belief she wears a wig, Heather," said my father, bending towards me. "But we won't repeat it, will we, darling? So she and I took up all your view, poor little girl! Well, we did it in thoughtlessness."
"I don't think she did," I answered stoutly "I think she wanted to talk to you."
"She'll have plenty of time for that in the future," he said; "but tell me now, before we get to the hotel, what do you think of her ladyship? She's a very smart-looking woman—eh?"
"I don't know what that means, father, but I don't like her at all."
"You don't like her—why, child?"
"I can't say; except that I don't."
"Oh, you mustn't give way to silly fancies," said my father. "She's a very fine woman. You oughtn't to turn against her, my dear Heather."
"Do you like her, father?" I asked, nestling up to him and slipping my hand into his.
"Awfully, my dear child; she's my very dearest friend."
"Oh! not dearer than I am?" I said, my heart beating hard.