In consequence of these theories, incumbent upon their guardian to carry out, Mary, Jane, and Florimel were separated from other girls of their age by the insurmountable barriers of their different education. Nourished as they were upon the great English classics, they knew much that girls of their age had not only never heard of, but which a great many people, unfortunately, miss throughout their lives. They were thoughtful and mature beyond their years because their minds were stored with the best of the poets, yet they were wholly ignorant of the world and knew nothing of what children younger than Florimel pick up from one another. They were more than anxious to be friendly to their contemporaries, and they were liked for their wit, their friendliness, their beauty. But the other Vineclad girls pronounced the Garden girls “queer,” that convenient word, covering what is not clearly perceived, and, with amiability on both sides, the Garden girls were usually left to their own companionship—which, after all, they preferred to any other.
But now the state of things was different. The Vineclad girls began to frequent Hollyhock House, drawn by the fascination of the charming little creature who was the girls’ unexpected and unlikely mother, and who had been before the public so long, even, it was whispered, having “sung at court!” Mrs. Garden was quick to perceive that she was fast becoming an idyl and an idol to the girls. She felt so much younger than her years, she was so fond of admiration and so accustomed to it, that she basked in the adulation of her visitors and became happier and more contented for having it.
“The girls are so dear, Mary,” she said. “Really, I find them perfectly charming! It would never do to say so, but I think Vineclad is far nicer in its younger set than in its older one. I’m quite happy with the girls, but I find their mothers and aunts a little, just a little frumpy—please, dear!”
Mary laughed. “I’ll let you, small madrina; don’t be afraid to say it! I’m so glad that the girls amuse you! It must be because we’ve got our labels on wrong; we are your mother and you are our little girl!”
“Oh, you’re not pokey, Mary; not you, nor Jane, nor Florimel; not a bit! You are much the cleverest girls here, as you are the prettiest. That isn’t prejudice, because even now I can’t believe you’re my babies, but it’s a fact!” cried Mrs. Garden loyally. “You know I haven’t shown you my scrapbooks nor my photographs yet. Well, I’m going to have them all brought into the garden this afternoon, and Gladys Low, Dorothy Bristead, Audrey Dallas, and Nanette Hall are coming to see them with you. You won’t mind?”
“Why, mother-girl, of course not! We like those girls best,” cried Mary.
“So do I!” said Mrs. Garden, evidently greatly pleased by this unanimous verdict. “Wait! I’m going to call up the Moultons and ask that nice Mark Walpole to come over. Then I’ll call up Win and tell him to come home early. Girls always have a better time with some boys about, even though there aren’t enough to go around! It’s better fun that way, once in a while; then one has the fun of seeing which of the girls score.”
“I’m shocked, madrina!” cried Jane, coming in at that moment and swinging her mother’s scant hundred and eight pounds off the floor in a big hug. “Needn’t bother with Sherlock-Holmes-experimenting on Win! He thinks Audrey Dallas beyond scoring, soared right up to the top of the column and stayed there!”
“Really!” cried Mrs. Garden, pausing with the telephone handle in her hand as she was about to ring up the Moultons’ number. “I didn’t know! Why didn’t you tell me? I love a romance, and Win is a dear boy—always was.”
“We never thought about it. It’s not a romance, yet,” said Jane carelessly. “Win thinks she’s the only girl in sight, except us, and we don’t count that way. But Audrey’s aiming for college, and Win isn’t visible to her naked eye; no boy is! He sees her, and no one else, when she’s around.”