“I don’t think I want to know the Whytes,” I said; “I think they’re very stuck-up.”
Mamma stared at me in astonishment.
“Connie, dear?” she said, “that simple child! And so plainly dressed, too. She might rather think it of you, I’m afraid.”
But she glanced at me so proudly as she said it, that my self-love felt rather smoothed down than otherwise.
“I am glad for little Miss Whyte to see that you are not usually going about in a torn frock and with a dirty face,” mamma went on. “Of course, Mrs Whyte could not afford to dress several children as one can dress an only one, though they certainly look very neat. I am sure every one must admire that jacket of yours, Connie; it is really very pretty.”
It was a new jacket, dark-brown velvet, very handsomely trimmed with fur; rather too handsome altogether, I now think, for a girl of the age I was then. But I had been very well pleased with it and the cap to match, and it had struck me—though really I was not vain of my looks, nor much interested in my clothes—as I was dressing, that my fair, long hair looked nice on the rich, dark velvet. Now, however, I gave myself a dissatisfied shake.
“I don’t think I like it, mamma. I would much rather have a tweed jacket and frock the same. I think velvet and fur are rather vulgar. And—mamma—I wish you’d cut my hair off—I think Evey Whyte looks so nice with her short, dark, curly hair.” I forget if I have said that Evey’s hair was almost as short as a boy’s.
Mamma gasped. “Cut off your hair, Connie!” she said. “My Sweet Content’s great beauty! Cut off your hair, Connie?”
I was beginning a rather cross reply, when steps behind us—short, quick, pattering steps—made both mamma and me look round. A little boy in a sailor suit was running after us, and behind him again, at some little distance, we saw Evey, also running.
“Oh, please, please stop,” panted the small boy. He was the biggest of the three we had seen in church. “Evey’s got something to say to you, Mrs Percy.”