“I think that flirting is very trivial,” she said at length, in her superior way, “and no flirt ever wins a man’s solid respect. My brother-in-law says that every man really cares more about good sense, even though he may show a passing interest in frivolous people.”
“I don’t care what your brother-in-law thinks,” returned Lily, with a spirit that astounded her friends. “I feel like flirting. I’m tired of being sensible. I want to be gay, and—and dangerous.”
“Amelia, you make me weary,” said Dolly; “you pretend you aren’t the least bit interested in beaux, but I know that you pose as being intellectual, just to—well, because you think it’s one way of attracting ’em! And why are you going as Sappho if it isn’t to show off your long hair?”
A titter of mirth greeted this observation, which struck everyone but Amelia as being remarkably astute.
“Come on, Lily—let’s just see how you would look in a Spanish costume,” coaxed Annie Lee. “We can use this yellow stuff for a skirt. Has anybody got a black lace scarf and a comb?”
“I have,” said Lily, herself. “I got them about four years ago and I’ve had them hidden in my lowest bureau drawer ever since. I knew I never could use them, but I couldn’t resist them. I—I put them on sometimes when I’m alone, just to see what I look like. Aren’t I silly?”
“Go and get them,” commanded Annie Lee. But at that moment, Mrs. Deacon reappeared.
“Now here is the album,” she announced. “I just want to read you these few little things that I think perfectly dear, Amelia. You with your veins of poesy will appreciate them.”
“Oh, mamma, please,” implored the hapless Lily, turning red as fire. “Don’t! They are so awful!”
“You are so modest, Lily. Now, here is a little thing that Lily wrote when she was only fifteen, Amelia. It’s called The Pinetree.” And with a preparatory “Ahem!” Mrs. Deacon proceeded to read amidst a profound silence,