“Why?” asked Fanny shortly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Everybody will be crowding around, asking questions and saying things.... Do you think she’s pretty, Jim?”
“Pretty?” echoed the young man.
He shot a keen glance at Ellen Dix from under half-closed lids. The girl’s big, black eyes were fixed full upon him; she was leaning forward, a suggestion of timid defiance in the poise of her head.
“Well, that depends,” he said slowly. “No, I don’t think she’s pretty.”
Ellen burst into a sudden trill of laughter.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “I supposed all the men—”
“But I do think she’s beautiful,” he finished calmly. “There’s a difference, you know.”
Ellen Dix tossed her head.
“Oh, is there?” she said airily. “Well, I don’t even think she’s pretty; do you, Fan?—with all that light hair, drawn back plain from her forehead, and those big, solemn eyes. But I guess she thinks she’s pretty, all right.”