"Hush, Alice! The neighbors will hear you. The walls of this apartment house are so terribly thin!"
"I don't care if they do hear. They all know dad hasn't had a theatrical engagement for ever so long. And they know we haven't any what you might call—resources—or we wouldn't live here. Of course they know we're poor—that's no news!"
"I know, my dear. But you are so—so out-spoken."
"I'm glad of it. Oh, Ruth, when will you ever give up trying to pretend we are what we are not? You're a dear, nice, sweet, romantic sister, and some day I hope the Fairy Prince will come riding past on his milk-white steed—and, say, Ruth, why should a prince always ride a milk-white steed? There's something that's never been explained.
"All the novels and fairy stories have milk-white steeds for the hero to prance up on when he rescues the doleful maiden. And if there's any color that gets dirtier sooner, and makes a horse look most like a lost hope, it's white. Of course I know they can keep a circus horse milk-white, but it isn't practical for princes or heroes. The first mud puddle he splashed through—And, oh, say! If the prince should fail in his fortunes later, and have to hire out to drive a coal wagon! Wouldn't his milk-white steed look sweet then? There goes one now," and she pointed out of the window to the street below.
"Do, Ruth, if your prince comes, insist on his changing his steed for one of sober brown. It will wear better."
"Don't be silly, Alice!"
"Oh, I can't help it. Hark, is that dad's step?"
The two girls listened, turning their heads toward the hall entrance door.
"No, it's someone over at the Dalwoods'—across the corridor."