“I ‘ve done my best for your sake, Tom, but she is a perverse
creature, and don’t mind a word I say, even about things much
more objectionable than blue gloves.”
“Maudie, run and bring me my other cigar case, it ‘s lying round
somewhere.”
Maud went; and as soon as the door was shut, Tom rose on his
elbow, saying in a cautiously lowered voice, “Fan, does Trix
paint?”
“Yes, and draws too,” answered Fanny, with a sly laugh.
“Come, you know what I mean; I ‘ve a right to ask and you ought
to tell,” said Tom, soberly, for he was beginning to find that being
engaged was not unmitigated bliss.
“What makes you think she does?”
“Well, between ourselves,” said Tom, looking a little sheepish, but
anxious to set his mind at rest, “she never will let me kiss her on
her cheek, nothing but an unsatisfactory peck at her lips. Then the
other day, as I took a bit of heliotrope out of a vase to put in my
button-hole, I whisked a drop of water into her face; I was going to
wipe it off, but she pushed my hand away, and ran to the glass,
where she carefully dabbed it dry, and came back with one cheek
redder than the other. I did n’t say anything, but I had my
suspicions. Come now, does she?”
“Yes, she does; but don’t say a word to her, for she ‘ll never forgive
my telling if she knew it.”
“I don’t care for that; I don’t like it, and I won’t have it,” said Tom,
decidedly.
“You can’t help yourself. Half the girls do it, either paint or
powder, darken their lashes with burnt hair-pins, or take cologne
on lumps of sugar or belladonna to make their eyes bright. Clara
tried arsenic for her complexion, but her mother stopped it,” said
Fanny, betraying the secrets of the prison-house in the basest
manner.
“I knew you girls were a set of humbugs, and very pretty ones, too,
some of you, but I can’t say I like to see you painted up like a lot of
actresses,” said Tom, with an air of disgust.
“I don’t do anything of the sort, or need it, but Trix does; and
having chosen her, you must abide your choice, for better or
worse.”
“It has n’t come to that yet,” muttered Tom, as he lay down again
with a rebellious air.
Maud’s return put an end to these confidences, though Tom excited
her curiosity by asking the mysterious question, “I say, Fan, is
Polly up to that sort of thing?”
“No, she thinks it ‘s awful. When she gets pale and dragged out she
will probably change her mind.”
“I doubt it,” said Tom.
“Polly says it is n’t proper to talk secrets before people who ain’t in
’em,” observed Maud, with dignity.
“Do, for mercy sake, stop talking about Polly, I ‘m sick to death of
it,” cried Fanny, snappishly.
“Hullo!” and Tom sat up to take a survey. “I thought you were
bosom friends, and as spoony as ever.”
“Well, I am fond of Polly, but I get tired of hearing Maud sing her
praises everlastingly. Now don’t go and repeat that, chatterbox.”
“My goodness, is n’t she cross?” whispered Maud to Tom.
“As two sticks; let her be. There ‘s the bell; see who it is, Pug,”
answered Tom, as a tingle broke the silence of the house.
Maud went to peep over the banisters, and came flying back in a
rapture.
“It ‘s Will come for me! Can’t I go? It don’t snow hard, and I ‘ll
bundle up, and you can send for me when papa comes.”
“I don’t care what you do,” answered Fan, who was in a very bad
temper.
Without waiting for any other permission, Maud rushed away to
get ready. Will would n’t come up, he was so snowy, and Fanny
was glad, because with her he was bashful, awkward, and silent, so
Tom went down and entertained him with Maud’s report. They
were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being
a “dig,” and Tom a “bird,” or, in plain English, one was a hard