Dorothy was just about to broach the subject when Tavia suddenly turned to her with this surprising question:
“Dorothy, do you think I’m pretty?”
“Why, of course you are,” stammered Dorothy. “You know I have always thought you—pretty.”
“But I do not mean what you always thought, Doro. I am awfully serious now. Am I really pretty?”
“I don’t know,” replied her chum. “I could not tell what others might think—but I have always thought you the prettiest kind of a girl—you know that.”
“But do you think that in—in a crowd I might be considered—attractive? Are my features good? Do I look—look interesting?”
This was said with such apparent simplicity that Dorothy almost laughed. There stood a pretty girl—without question a remarkably pretty girl—of a most unusual type—and she was begging for a compliment—no, for an opinion of her personality!
Dorothy did not answer. She could not possibly say that at that moment Tavia was a perfect vision, as she stood in her white robe, with her freshly-brushed hair framing the outline of her sweet, young face. But the girl before the mirror wanted to know.
“Dorothy, do tell me,” she begged. “What do you think? Am I pretty, or not?”
“Tavia,” exclaimed Dorothy suddenly, “tell me, why do you want to know?”