“I don't think it is as pretty as Maud's.”
“Mine was made in New York,” said Miss Shaw, smoothing her skirts complacently.
“I can't dress much now, you know, 'cause mamma's in black for somebody,” observed Miss Alice Lovett, feeling the importance which affliction conferred upon her when it took the form of a jet necklace.
“Well, I don't care if my dress is n't imported; my cousin had three kinds of wine at her party; so, now,” said Blanche.
“Did she?” And all the little girls looked deeply impressed, till Maud observed, with a funny imitation of her father's manner, “My papa said it was scan-dill-us; for some of the little boys got tipsy, and had to be tooked home. He would n't let us have any wine; and gwandma said it was vewy impwoper for childwen to do so.”
“My mother says your mother's coup, is n't half so stylish as ours,” put in Alice.
“Yes, it is, too. It's all lined with gween silk, and that's nicer than old wed cloth,” cried Maud, ruffling up like an insulted chicken.
“Well, my brother don't wear a horrid old cap, and he's got nice hair. I would n't have a brother like Tom. He's horrid rude, my sister says,” retorted Alice.
“He is n't. Your brother is a pig.”
“You're a fib!”