"No, she can't," her brother asserted. "Cynthia never sees any fun in working."
"Roger!" Mrs. Galbraith drawled gently.
"Well, I don't like to work," owned the girl with delicious audacity. "I detest it. Why should I pretend to like it when I don't?"
"Cynthia is one of the lilies of the field; she's just made for ornament," called Roger over his shoulder as he passed into the house.
"There is something in being ornamental, isn't there, daughter?" said Mr. Galbraith, dropping into a chair and lighting a fresh cigar.
She was decorative, there was no mistake about that. The skirt of heavy white satin clung to her slight figure in faultless lines, and her sweater of a rose shade was no more lovely in tint than was the faint flush in her cheeks. Every hair of the elaborate coiffure had been coaxed skilfully into place by a hand that understood the cunning, and wherever nature had been guilty of an oversight art had supplied the defect. Yes, Cynthia Galbraith was quite a perfect product, thought Bob, as he surveyed her there beneath the awning.
"I thought Madam Lee was here," the young man presently remarked, as he glanced about.
Mrs. Galbraith's face clouded.
"Mother is not well to-day," she answered. "Careful as we are of her she has in some way taken cold. She is not really ill, but we thought it wise for her to keep her room. She is heartbroken not to be downstairs and I promised that after she had had her luncheon and nap you would go up and see her."
"Surely!" Robert Morton cried emphatically.