William did not answer. He merely looked at her and she hastily turned away to talk to Mrs. Brown. She talked about her rheumatism and Mr. Bott’s liver and the incompetence of Violet Elizabeth’s nurse.
Then Violet Elizabeth entered. Violet Elizabeth’s fair hair was not naturally curly but as the result of great daily labour on the part of the much maligned nurse it stood up in a halo of curls round her small head. The curls looked almost, if not quite, natural. Violet Elizabeth’s small pink and white face shone with cleanliness. Violet Elizabeth was so treasured and guarded and surrounded with every care that her small pink and white face had never been known to do anything else except shine with cleanliness. But the pièce de résistance about Violet Elizabeth’s appearance was her skirts. Violet Elizabeth was dressed in a white lace trimmed dress with a blue waistband, and beneath the miniature blue waistband her skirts stood out like a tiny ballet dancer’s in a filmy froth of lace trimmed petticoats. From this cascade emerged Violet Elizabeth’s bare legs, to disappear ultimately into white silk socks and white buckskin shoes.
William gazed at this engaging apparition in horror.
“Good afternoon,” said Violet Elizabeth primly.
“Good afternoon,” said William in a hollow voice.
“Take the little boysie into the garden, Violet Elizabeth,” said her mother, “and play with him nicely.”
William and Violet Elizabeth eyed each other apprehensively.
“Come along, boy,” said Violet Elizabeth at last, holding out a hand.
William ignored the hand and with the air of a hero bound to his execution, accompanied Violet Elizabeth into the garden.
Mrs. Brown’s eyes followed them anxiously.