Marjorie was silent; her cheeks were burning and her eyes downcast. She never could be like that; she never could be a "little lady," if a little lady meant all those unattainable things.
"Do they talk differently from us—from country girls?" she asked after a long pause.
"Yes, I think they do. Mira Crane—I'll tell you how the country girls talk—says 'we am,' and 'fust rate,' and she speaks rudely and abruptly and doesn't look directly at a person when she speaks, she says 'good morning' and 'yes' and 'no' without 'sir' or 'ma'am' or the person's name, and answers 'I'm very well' without adding 'thank you.'"
"Yes," said Marjorie, taking mental note of each expression.
"And Josie Grey—you see I've been studying the difference in the girls since I came home—"
Had he been studying her?
"Is there so much difference?" she asked a little proudly.
"Yes. The difference struck me. It is not city or country that makes the difference, it is the homes and the schools and every educating influence. Josie Grey has all sorts of exclamations like some old grandmother, and she says 'I tell you,' and 'I declare,' and she hunches all up when she sits or puts her feet out into the middle of the room."
"Yes," said Marjorie, again, intently.
"And Nettie Trevor colors and stammers and talks as if she were afraid of you. My little ladies see so many people that they become accustomed to forgetting themselves and thinking of others. They see people to admire and imitate, too."