“To the least ugly one, you mean, don’t you?” returned Pauline, casting a scrutinizing glance at the busy workers.
“The least ugly one is that woman straight ahead in the sky-blue apron.”
“She has hair on her chin, Polly.”
“And haven’t they all, or nearly all, you fastidious creature? And isn’t she the only one that looks reconciled to it?” Pauline rattled on. “I think she deserves to be noticed.” And stepping up to the peasant, she made a graceful bow, and said,—
“Bon jour, madame.”
“Bon jour, ma’m’selle,” replied the fish-wife politely, not pausing from her netting. Then nodding toward Donald, she added something about “le joli petit enfant.”
“She seems to be delivering an oration, Molly,” murmured mischievous Pauline with a serious countenance.
“Don’t, Polly, don’t make me laugh in her face,” entreated Molly, her lips twitching. “She said Donald was a pretty little child. I understood as much as that.”
“Pretty? Of course he is, and he’s sweet; but that’s no reason why she should run her words all together like melted caramels,” retorted Pauline, looking straight at the woman and speaking in an easy, conversational tone.
The woman sat there, serenely unconscious that she was talked about, and Molly had to turn away to hide her merriment. It was one of her minor trials that Pauline could, at almost any time, surprise her into a giggle, while remaining herself as sedate as an owl.