“Oh, I’d rather be like Gloria, of course,” retorted Darcy easily. “But I feel more like John L.”
“I think it very clever of you, Darcy,” approved the kind-hearted Helen. “Englishmen are so athletic.”
Darcy seized upon the convenient suggestion. “Monty is crazy for me to be a real sport,” she said modestly.
“It’s a good thing he can’t see you learning,” remarked Maud.
“Did you ever know anything more pathetic!” said Helen, when they had withdrawn, leaving Darcy to resume her exercises.
“Pathetic! Driveling foolishness! Such a figure as she cuts! And it’s all such a waste,” concluded Maud, complacent in her own bright-hued prettiness.
But a more discerning eye took a different view. Holcomb Lee, who hadn’t seen Darcy for some weeks, had no sooner said, “Hello!” in his usual offhand way, when he came to call that evening, than he seized a pencil and demanded a sheet of paper.
“You’re always drawing Darcy!” said Maud disdainfully.
“Just that curve from the ear down,” said he absently. “Something’s happened to it.”
“What?” asked Maud.