“I’m sorry I laughed,” Lorraine said penitently. “You made me—my father don’t let me laugh at poor folks.”
“Because he’s a minister—I laughed because it was funny,” Dan retorted, his dark eyes flashing, “and I bet now that—what’s her name?—Thurley would have laughed too, if she could have looked in a glass and seen herself. I like her. I bet she wouldn’t cry, if she got lost in the woods.” This with a reproachful expression.
Lorraine moved nearer him. “Dan, I didn’t really cry; I was just nervous. Maybe I can do things this girl can’t; anyhow, I don’t go around in a ragged dress and my hair all rumpled,” and she smoothed the pattern of her pink frock proudly. She was fair-haired with dove-colored eyes and tiny, dainty features.
Dan did not answer. Lorraine touched his arm. “Are you mad?” she whispered earnestly.
“Not mad, but you know, Lorraine, I only play with you because my father makes me—because your father’s the minister and pa thinks it looks well.” Daniel possessed the aggressive frankness of the Birge family, but he had not acquired their customary diplomacy.
Lorraine’s underlip quivered. “Wouldn’t you play with me, unless I was?” she asked wistfully. “I always liked you best of every one.”
Daniel stared at her in contempt. “I like you—but you’re a girl, and I like the gang better—I bet though that now—what was it?—Thurley—I bet Thurley would be one of the gang, as if she were a fellow.”
“So you like that ragged girl?” Lorraine asked in alarm.
Dan nodded. “When she sang, my heart beat loud, and she looked at me more’n she did the rest. I’m going to tell her I’m sorry I laughed.”
Lorraine turned to leave him. “My father won’t want me playing with you, Dan, even if your great-great-great-grandfather did discover the lake and your father has money. Everybody knows your father has a gambling room and sells beer on Sunday—now! And if you play with a tin peddler’s girl, my father won’t let me play with you—tra-la-la—” She began singing shrilly.