That was a note to have from one’s favorite brother, her frown said, as she turned to her friend.
“But if her family is so good——” she began, taking up the conversation where they had dropped it. The sentence seemed connected in her mind with the note, at which she looked.
“Oh, but they can’t manage her,” replied Julia Crosby, punching her parasol tip into the sand. “Mr. Remi died when Blanche was a baby. Mrs. Remi is a nervous invalid. Blanche has run wild since she could run at all. If she were a boy—well, she’d be the ‘black sheep.’”
“Is she fast?” said Lillian Gueste, with horrified emphasis.
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Crosby hastened. But she seemed to find it difficult to explain to her friend just what Blanche Remi was. “She’s—well, she’s wild. She does such things—things none of the other girls do. She drives a sulky. She rides in a man’s coat and red gloves. It sounds so silly when you tell it,” she ended, feeling she had failed to properly impress her friend, “but you can always see her coming a mile away, whether it’s golf or a garden party.”
“You mean she’s a tomboy?” said Mrs. Gueste, doubtfully. Her smile said that Walter would never take that sort seriously.
“Oh, if it were only that!” Mrs. Crosby’s gesture was eloquent. “Do you know what they call her here?”
“They?”
“Well, everybody. Some man, I think, started it. They call her ‘the Wrecker.’”
“The Wrecker?” Mrs. Gueste’s inquiring eyes were on her friend.