He smiled ruefully at the recollection.
“She’s a young woman of spirit,” I declared defensively. “She simply must find an outlet for the joy of youth,—paddling a canoe, chasing rabbits through the snow, placing kittens in durance vile. But she’s demure enough when she pleases,—and a satisfaction to the eye.”
My heart warmed at the memory of Olivia. Verily the chaplain was right—she was many girls in one!
Stoddard dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee.
“Miss Devereux begged hard for her, but Sister Theresa couldn’t afford to keep her. Her influence on the other girls was bad.”
“That’s to Miss Devereux’s credit,” I replied. “You needn’t wait, Bates.”
“Olivia was too popular. All the other girls indulged her. And I’ll concede that she’s pretty. That gipsy face of hers bodes ill to the hearts of men—if she ever grows up.”
“I shouldn’t exactly call it a gipsy face; and how much more should you expect her to grow? At twenty a woman’s grown, isn’t she?”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Fifteen, you mean! Olivia Armstrong—that little witch—the kid that has kept the school in turmoil all the fall?”