“I always thought it meant ‘watery,’” hazarded Ursula.
“Do you really think so?” Mevrouw Mopius reflected, sitting critically back from her screen, and surveying her cherry-colored Orientals. “Really, watery. Ursula, I wonder if that view is correct?”
“Like a perpetual cold in her head,” volunteered the dark girl, listlessly. “I know such people.”
Mevrouw Mopius sniffed unconsciously.
“In that case I should have to make them red,” she said. “I had just decided on dove color.”
“You couldn’t make red show against the cheeks,” said Harriet. “Hadn’t you better send round and ask Mevrouw Pock’s opinion?”
Mevrouw Mopius smiled immediate approval.
“A very sensible suggestion,” she said. Mevrouw Pock was the wife of her favorite parson. “You have plenty of sense if only you were always good-tempered. Get me my escritoire from the table over there. No; writing letters fatigues me”—she couldn’t spell—“you must run across after dinner, and get Mevrouw to consult her husband as to what it says in the Greek.”
“But I shall have to change my dress again,” protested Harriet.