“But she’s plucky and she’ll never never give in to silly little clothes,” the comb and brush might easily have confided to each other.
“And you don’t know, Dads, what a perfectly stunning pair of pajamas I have,” the girl leaning over the bag spoke up finally. “You know, dear old Mrs. Seaman sent them to me for Christmas; wasn’t that lucky?”
“It was,” replied the tall, thin man sullenly. “And if it hadn’t been for dear old Mrs. Seaman,” he was adding irony to every word, “I suppose you wouldn’t have that perfectly stunning pair of slippers, either.” More irony, more sarcasm, and teams of bitterness sharpened Dr. Hale’s words. He was blaming himself, only, and was therefore free to be as cruel as he wished about it.
“Dads,” coaxed Barbara, jumping up from her packing and confronting the ogre, “you’re being mean.” She was standing there before him in her big white bungalow apron—this was her idea of a practical bathrobe—and her eyes, always the deepest blue, were now so truly violet that their shadows were almost purple.
Certainly Barbara had a remarkable face—every feature matched up so perfectly—but the two most striking were her pallor, for one of her type, which she left untinted; and the deep violet of her eyes. She looked foreign or rather classic, with a firmness about her expression hardly fair to her youth. Her nose was very straight with that sculptured curve at her nostrils that made one think of a Greek statue—or a young colt, depending entirely upon Barbara’s mood.
Just now she was being the colt, and Dr. Hale, her indulgent father, was well aware of that mood.
“We should have sold off some of our land, Babs,” he repeated, coming back to her door and intoning the words like a verdict for some one doomed.
“We should not, Dads,” she contradicted. “Just because I haven’t a few brand new rags for a silly little party, you stand there bewailing our misery.” Her words were serious enough but her tone was bantering. Barbara was determined to cheer up the gloomy man before her.
“Well, all right,” he conceded, tapping his fingers impatiently on her door jamb and thereby drawing one’s attention to its shabby paint. “But I’m glad you’re going. Do you good,” he pronounced, again in that judicial tone.
“Maybe,” scoffed Barbara. “But I wouldn’t have gone a single step if it hadn’t been for that Cara Burke.” Barbara ignored her packing completely now. “She’s the nicest girl, Dads, really a thoroughbred. I just couldn’t refuse her.” The inference was plainly that she preferred to have refused even Cara.