“Nonsense! You’re too young.”
“Child, I told you so,” said Aunt Fay quietly, slipping the cosey on the tea-pot again.
“Too young!” Grace pulled savagely at the girlish hair on her brow, and twisted her long braid hanging down her back, up high on her head.
“I’ll do up my hair, and pull down my face—so,” lengthening her round cheeks—“anything, to just get the chance of going,” she cried. “O Uncle Carroll! and I’m sixteen. You’re positively cruel.”
“You’re nothing but a school-girl,” said Aunt Fay; “the idea of going to a reception.”
“Why, those receptions of Mrs. King’s are packed; you don’t seem to understand, Grace; and you’d take the standing-room of some one else,” added Uncle Carroll.
“I’d take my own standing-room,” declared Grace positively, “and I wouldn’t tread on other people’s toes;” seeing a chance for her, since the two guardians of her peace had begun to argue the point. “Just think, I’ve never seen the King house nor Miss Phronsie.”
“Well, she’s a raving, tearing beauty,” said Uncle Carroll, “and worth going miles to see, I tell you.”
“And I want to see Mrs. King again,” cried Grace, pursuing her advantage. “I got a peek at her once, when she came to call at the Drysdales. Bella and I heard she was in the drawing-room, and we crept in behind the cabinet. She was just lovely; and the color kept coming and going in her cheeks, and her brown eyes were laughing, and I’ll do anything to see her again.”
“She’s the rage, that’s a fact,” assented Uncle Carroll. “Well, Mrs. Atherton, why don’t you take the child for once; I would.”