“I saw that Orr girl,” whispered Ellen; “she’s got on a white dress, all lace, and a black sash. She does look pretty, Fanny; we’ll have to acknowledge it.”
“Ye-es,” murmured Fanny who was drawing on a pair of fresh white gloves.
“You aren’t going to wear those gloves down stairs, are you, Fan? I haven’t got any.”
“My hands are all stained up with currant jelly,” explained Fanny hurriedly. “Your hands are real pretty, Ellen.”
Ellen glanced down at her capable, brown hands, with their blunt finger-tips.
“Did you ever notice her hands, Fanny?”
Fanny shook her head.
“Her nails are cut kind of pointed, and all shined up. And her hands are so little and soft and white. I suppose a man—do you think Jim would notice that sort of thing, Fanny?”
Fanny snapped the fastenings of her gloves.
“Let’s go down stairs,” she suggested. “They’ll be wondering what’s become of us.”