"But it is just that. If you were small for our age instead of so big, it would be called childishness; and as it is, I've heard you spoken of as 'a spoilt child.' But you are so tall, so big, so womanly, most people think you are a grown up young lady; and—and grown up young ladies don't go on just in the way that you do, Dorothea."
"'Just the way that I do!' Oh, I laugh, and I make too much noise in my fun, I suppose you think; but what's the reason the Brookside people and the lots of people we know all about Brookside,—what's the reason they don't find fault with my ways and leave me out of their parties?"
"You are a stranger here, Dorothea. You must remember that we never have the same freedom, or are looked upon quite the same, in a place where we are strangers, as where we have always lived," answered Hope, gently.
"Then it's all the more reason why I'd better go home, where people know me and don't think my ways so dreadful."
"Dorothea, you have told me once or twice that your cousin found fault with your ways, and perhaps—if he had not been your cousin, have known you so well—if you had been a stranger to him, he might not have made a friendly allowance for you; and, Dorothea, tell me one thing: did you ever—ever go on there at home as you have here,—receiving gifts and attentions, and going to the theatre on the—on the sly?"
"N—o."
"If you had, and it had been found out, do you think it would have been passed over unnoticed?"
"N—o, I don't suppose it would, but I shouldn't have been treated like this,—left out like this."
"No; because—because, Dorothea, you and your family are not strangers,—because you are well known, and people forgive friends for a long time."
"Then I'd better go back to them, I'd better go back to them, and I will, I will! Oh, I can't stay here, Hope, I can't, I can't! I see how you'll all feel, how you'll think that I've been a disgrace to the school, when this gets out that Mrs. Armitage wouldn't have me at the party, and I can't, I can't stay."