Then Margot appeared with a very small silver tray. It held a card which she handed to Lady Betty.
“Oh, dear!” she sighed. “Fred, there’s the Prestons. Suppose you go down, like a love, while I slip into something. Rosa and Nancy be good girls. Nancy, your name is a hymn to me, it was also my grandmother’s. She was a cameo lady, beautiful beyond words.”
“No relation to our Nancy, then,” again spoke the impish Rosa.
Both girls were brazenly glad when their elders were gone, and in spite of Margot’s unwelcome ministrations, Rosa hopped out of bed, pushed Margot outside, shut the door, turned the key and undertook to execute an original dance, sort of “skippity-hop-to-the-barber-shop” fashion.
“Now you see, you see,” she paused to tell Nancy, “just what I’m up—against!”
“Rosalind Fernell!” exclaimed Nancy. “Do you know you are just too silly for anything?”
“Maybe I am.” The girl with the flying scarf came to a very abrupt stop and seemed to confront Nancy. “But I just want to tell you I can’t love Betty. She’s too dollified. Makes me feel like a—like a clown.” The voice, usually so flippant, had suddenly become almost tragic. “And that’s why, Nancy Brandon,” continued the indignant Rosa, “I’m going to become less—clownish!”
“Rosa!”
Tears, tears unmistakable had gathered in the soft blue eyes, and Nancy was panic stricken at their appearance. She couldn’t bear to cry herself, and she hated even worse than that to see any one else cry. And now, here was Rosa on the verge!
“I’ve just got to have it out!” moaned Rosa, dropping down again into her pillows. “Every time I see her I feel just the same. Oh, why couldn’t daddy be satisfied with me? We were such—such—chums—”