She was a girl of strong and jealous affections, but the electric circuits in her nature were not yet established. Then, also, she had not been a child who had made herself the heroine of her own dreams, and that had hindered her emotional development.
“Charlotte,” one of her school-mates, had asked her once, “do you ever amuse yourself by imagining that you have a lover?”
Charlotte had stared at the girl, a beautiful, early matured, innocently shameless creature. “No,” said she. “I don't understand what you mean, Rosamond.”
“The next moonlight night,” said the girl, “Imagine that you have a lover.”
“What if I did?”
“It would make you very happy, almost as happy as if you had a real one,” said the girl, who was only a child in years, though, on account of her size, she had been put into long dresses. She had far outstripped the boys of her own age, who were rather shy of her.
Charlotte, who was still in short dresses, looked at her, full of scorn and a mysterious shame. “I don't want any lover at all,” declared she. “I don't want an imaginary one, or a real one, either. I've got my papa, and that's all I want.” At that time Charlotte still clung to her doll, and the doll was in her mind, but she did not say doll to the other girl.
“Well, I don't care,” said the other girl, defiantly. “You will sometime.”
“I sha'n't, either,” declared Charlotte. “I never shall be so silly, Rosamond Lane.”
“You will, too.”