“Neither had you,” added Doromea, a little warmly.
“Naturally not—having been brought up in the city with you.”
“Poor people!” Timothy’s gray eyes commiserated them. “But now that the book is done, you can begin to learn something?”
“I mean to find myself,” said Doromea, loftily. “And I shall have to go off alone for the whole day in order to do it.”
“That would be very rude—and no help at all to you. Why not take Gladys-Marie along?” Timothy meant it—though he had never seen Gladys-Marie.
“I would, if she were not so typical.” Doromea was quite serious. “Nowadays one must insist upon the unusual, or grow usual oneself. Even one’s maid is an influence.”
Michael looked triumphantly at Timothy—they were used to holding some argument together as to Doromea’s cleverness.
“I see—then how important we usual ones are, aren’t we?—for if it wasn’t for us, all of you’d be usual, too!” Timothy’s smile included Anne, who came out just at that moment, completely covered with a checked blue apron.
“Anne—Timothy!” Doromea’s voice showed what she thought of aprons.
“Yes, I know—I met him.” Anne sat down, innocently, and began to fan her flushed face. “Dinner’s ready,” she added, as an incident.