“Not gross flattery,” he said, “not meant as such at all in this case, I am sure; love makes my little girl see her father through rose-colored glasses.”
“But don’t you like it?” she asked naïvely.
“Yes; I must confess I do,” he returned, with a look of amusement.
Annis was with Mildred, talking about the coming party. It would be quite an event in the child’s life, and though very unwilling to miss it, she felt some shrinking and timidity at the prospect of meeting so many strange people in a strange place.
“I’m afraid I won’t behave right, Milly,” she said, a little anxiously. “I wish you could tell me just how.”
“Forget yourself, dear, and think only how to add to the enjoyment of others. Be modest and retiring—though I need hardly tell you that—but don’t be troubled with the idea that people are watching you; they will have something else to attend to, and a little girl like you is not likely to be noticed in so large a company.”
“That’s nice!” Annis remarked with satisfaction. “I think it will be fun to watch the doings of the grown-up folks and listen to their talk, without anybody taking notice of it—it will be almost as good as being invisible.”
“Ah, don’t be too sure of a great deal of fun to be gained in that way; some of the talk at such gatherings is apt to be too insipid to be worth hearing; if nothing worse.”
“Milly, I don’t believe you care much for parties,” Annis said, half in wonder and surprise, half inquiringly.
“No; I did once, but got my fill of them long ago; quiet home pleasures with those I love and who love me are now far more to my taste. Still we owe something to neighbors and friends outside of our family, and one must not give up society altogether.”