“No, I think not; I am sure not. I was asked, you know, and I dare say mother would not have objected to my going. But I find these parties very stupid.”
“Miss Atherton does not find them stupid, I should think.”
“Miss Atherton! Oh, no! But she is quite different. I dare say I should like them well enough too, if I were quite grown up, and a belle like her. But one like me is only in the way in such a place, unless she sits quiet in a corner. That is all very well for a little time, but it soon becomes stupid enough.”
“But you are not a little girl. You are fifteen,” said Christie.
“Yes, I am too old to be contented with a seat in a corner, so I don’t like parties yet. And I do believe father thinks it is because I am so sensible.”
Christie could not help laughing at the half-grave, half-comic way in which this was spoken.
“It must be very pleasant to be a belle, however,” continued Gertrude, meditatively, “to have all eyes fixed on you in admiration, and to eclipse all the rest of the stars.”
“But that doesn’t often happen, except in books, I fancy,” said Christie.
“Well, I suppose not. It couldn’t happen very often. But it must be delightful when it does happen. Don’t you think so?” she added, as Christie’s face grew grave. “Wouldn’t you like to shine, as Miss Atherton will, at the Youngs’ to-night?”
“You forget I don’t know about these things,” said Christie.