The girl seemed genuinely surprised. “Why, of course! Every one likes it. What a perfectly funny idea!”
“Well,” said Laurie, defensively, “we’ve never tried boarding-school before, you see. Dad didn’t know anything about Hillman’s, either. He chose it on account of the way the advertisement read in a magazine. Something about ‘a moderate discipline rigidly enforced.’”
The girl laughed again. (She had a jolly sort of laugh, they decided.) “You’re—you’re twins, aren’t you?” she asked.
“He is,” replied Ned, gravely.
“Why—why, aren’t you both?” Her brown eyes grew very round and the little lines creased her nose again.
“It’s this way,” explained Laurie. “Ned was born first, and so, as there was only one of him, he wasn’t a twin. Then I came, and that made two of us, and I was a twin. You see, don’t you? It’s really quite plain.”
The girl shook her head slowly in puzzlement. “I—I’m afraid I don’t,” she answered apologetically. “You must be twins—both of you, I mean—because you both look just like both—I mean, each other!” Then she caught the sparkle of mischief in Ned’s blue eyes and laughed. Then they all laughed. After which they seemed suddenly to be very good friends, such good friends that Laurie abandoned custom and spoke out of turn.
“I suppose you know a lot of the fellows,” he said.
The girl shook her head. “N—no, not any, really. Of course, I see most of them when they come to Mother’s, but she doesn’t like me to—to know them.”
“Of course not,” approved Ned. “She’s dead right, too. They’re a pretty poor lot, I guess.”