“Dear child, it’s all locked up in you—the ability to do everything—be anything! The only difference between us is that I had the chance to try.”
“But I can’t even stand on my head,” said Dulcie wistfully.
“Did you ever try?”
“N-no.”
“It’s easy. Do you want to see me do it?”
“Oh, please, Thessa!”
So Thessalie, calmly smiling, rose, cast herself lightly upon her hands, straightened her lithe figure leisurely, until, amid a cataract of tumbling silk and chiffon, her rose silk slippers pointed toward the ceiling. Then, always with graceful deliberation, she brought her feet to the floor, forming an arc with her body; held it a moment, and slowly rose upright, her flushed face half-buried in her loosened hair.
Dulcie, in raptures, climbed out of bed and insisted on immediate instruction. Down on the tennis court, Garry and Westmore heard their peals of laughter and came across the lawn under the window to remonstrate.
“Aren’t you ever going to get dressed!” called up Westmore. “If you’re going to play doubles with us you’d better get busy, because it’s going to be a hot day!”