"So did I," calmly avowed Bess. "I did really, Phil."
"No, you didn't!" sharply contradicted Lelia. "You never liked anybody but yourself and your dear, lovely Rosy!"
"I say I did!" stoutly declared Bess. "I liked Phil before I was born."
And she nodded her little head complacently, as if this last were a clincher that no one—not even Lelia—could have the hardihood to doubt.
Phil burst out laughing, and Lelia flung down the book she was reading, or trying lo read, when Bess began her marvelous "snake-story," and stared at her cousin in speechless disgust.
"I never did see such behaviors as those," said Bess, with awful gravity and a marked consideration for the English language not common to her.
"Such behaviors as those!" repeated Lelia, with peppery sarcasm. "My goodness, Bess, how finely you talk, and how truthful you are this afternoon!"
"You shan't scorn at me," sturdily retorted Bess. "I will cry if you do, and then Phil will take my part, and won't like you one bit."
"As if I cared for your crying, or your being 'scorned at,' or Phil's not liking me!"
And Lelia sailed out of the room, crossed the piazza and ran down the japonica-bordered path to the garden.