“I daren’t. It’s breaking the rules. What would they say?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out. They can’t kill us, anyway, and we’ll have had a good time first. You’ve got to pay your bills in this wicked world. Now, then—hustle!”
“I can’t!” faltered Elma, and lifted one foot over the wire arch, “I daren’t!” and stepped completely over, lifting her skirt behind her. The deed was done! A tingle of excitement ran through her veins, she reared her head and laughed aloud, looking with bright, unashamed eyes at the curtained windows. The moment of revolt had come; a moment long desired in the depths of a meek, long-suffering heart, and prepared for by many a seething inward struggle. Cornelia had applied the match, and the tow blazed. Elma laughed again, and seated herself beneath the tree. Cornelia had tossed her hat on the ground and clasped her hands round her knees in comfortable, inelegant position. Elma did the same, and the American girl, watching her, was at a loss to account for the reckless radiance of her smile. The sunshine flickered down between the branches on the sweet pink and white face, the pansy blue eyes, and long slender throat; it shone alike on the ill-fitting gown, the clumsy shoes, the carelessly arranged hair. Cornelia’s golden eyes travelled up and down, down and up, in earnest, scrutinising fashion. She met Elma’s glance with a shake of the head, forbearing, yet reproachful.
“Say! You don’t know how to prink, do you?”
“Prink?” Elma was doubtful even as to the meaning of the word. She arched her brows in inquiry, whereat Cornelia laughed aloud.
“You are real, genuine English! You make me think of roses, and cream, and honey, and mountain dew, and everything that’s sweet and wholesome, and takes no thought of the morrow. If you lived over with us, we’d fix you up so your own mother wouldn’t know you, and there’d be paragraphs about you in the papers every single day, saying what you did, and what you were wearing, and how you looked when you wore it.”
“‘Miss Elma Ramsden sat on the grass, attired in a blue rag, with freckles on her nose.’”
“My, no!” Cornelia chuckled. “They spread it pretty thick when they once begin. You’d have every adjective in the dictionary emptied over you. ‘The irresistible Elma,’ ‘Radiant Miss Ramsden,’ ‘The beauteous English Rose.’ Half the time it’s only bluff, but with you it would be a true bill. You are beautiful. Do you know it?”
The pink flush deepened in Elma’s delicate face.
“Am I?” she asked wistfully. “Really? Oh, I hope you are right. I should be so happy if it were true, but—but, I’m afraid it can’t be. No one notices me; no one seems to think I am—nice! I’m only just Elma Ramsden—not radiant, nor irresistible, nor anything of the kind. Plain Elma Ramsden, as much a matter of course as the trees in the park. Since you came here, in one fortnight, you’ve had more attention than I’ve had in the whole course of my life.”