"Perhaps some things are like—" she began, almost dancing along by his side, so relieved that she could have poured out a song for joy.
"What do you do nowadays?" he asked presently. "You are more of a live mouse than you used to be! I can't call you Mousie any more, only for the sake of old times."
"I like it," said Marjorie.
"But what do you do nowadays?"
"I read all the time—when I can, and I work, different kinds of work.
Tell me about the little city girls."
"I only know my cousins and one or two others, their friends."
"What do they look like?"
"Like girls! Don't you know how girls look?"
"Not city girls."
"They are pretty, most of them, and they dress older than you and have a manner; they always know how to reply and they are not awkward and too shy; they know how to address people, and introduce people, and sometimes to entertain them, they seem to know what to talk about, and they are bright and wide-awake. They play and sing and study the languages and mathematics. The girls I know are all little ladies."