Athalie was not a little surprised when she came home and saw Timéa with plaited hair.
"Who allowed you to turn up your hair? Where is your giraffe comb and your bow? Put it on at once."
Timéa pressed her lips together and shook her head.
"Will you do what I tell you instantly?"
"No."
Athalie was staggered at this resistance. It was unheard of that any one should contradict her. And this from an adopted child, who ate the bread of charity, who had always been so submissive, and once even kissed her foot. "No!" said she, going toward Timéa, and bringing her face, red with anger, as close to the other's alabaster cheek as if she would set it on fire.
Frau Sophie looked on with malicious joy from her corner, and said, "Didn't I say you would catch it when Athalie returned?"
But Timéa looked straight into Athalie's flaming eyes, and repeated her "No!"
"And why not?" screamed Athalie, whose voice was now like her mother's, while her eyes were exactly like her father's.
"Because I am prettier thus," answered Timéa.