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Landis, Mame, Anna Cresswell and a dozen others were already there. "Are we all here now?" whispered the doorkeeper. They began to count. The light was so dim that they could barely distinguish faces. "Fourteen," said Landis. "That is all." "Be sure," admonished the keeper of the keys in sepulchral tones. "I would not for worlds have one absent." "That's all." "Fourteen." "We're all here."
"It came to me while the girls were talking of the banquet and play and commencement that I was almost glad that we were not having any of them." "Mame Cross, what heresy! The flood has made her mad," cried the girls. "I have reasons for thinking so. I simply could not have gone to one thing. What could I have worn if I had gone?
This was a hit direct at the little Dutch doll, for all through the year she had been complaining at the restrictions of school, and could not understand why Doctor Weldon did not allow the girls to go down to the city when they pleased. During this conversation, Mame Cross had been sitting apart.
I opened up a gross or two of the Brazilians and made Mame put them on rings, brooches, necklaces, eardrops, bracelets, girdles, and lockets. She flashed and sparkled like a million-dollar princess until she had pink spots in her cheeks and almost cried for a looking-glass.
"'S that a fact?" he queried when his astonishment found utterance. "What d'you do to kill time? Well, I been thinking about knocking off the stuff for a while. Mame gets sore at me for having my fingers all stained up with nicotine like this." He extended his hand, the first and second fingers of which were painted a bright yellow. "Soap won't take it off," he remarked.
She would have been a beautiful girl, had she not looked bored and unhappy. "You're new suit is beautiful, Mame," said Sara over her shoulder. "Do you think so? I simply cannot bear it. I never have anything like other girls." "That is Maine's old cry," said Sara when she was beyond hearing. "She is the best-dressed girl in school and she has a father who is devoted to her.
Almost every one in the mill liked and respected the "Old Man;" but the human mind loves a sensation, and Lena and Hitchcock had told their story so vividly the day before that Mary's account seemed tame and dull beside it; and some of the hands preferred to think that "Mame Denison was a sly one, and warn't goin' to let on, fear some one'd git ahead of her."
The thick brown gravy is purring. I can see pale bits of potato, and it is uncertainly spotted with the mucosity of onions. Mame pours it into a big white plate. "That's for you," she says; "now, what shall I have?" We settle ourselves each side of the little swarthy table. Mame is fumbling in her pocket. Now her lean hand, lumpy and dark, unroots itself.
They nibble a little bit sometimes; that's all. "'I thought the confect "'For goodness' sake, change the subject, says Mame. "As I said before, that experience puts me wise that the feminine arrangement ever struggles after deceptions and illusions.
"For your poor mother," the ghost of Mame goes on, as she crosses the room with a wooden spoon in her hand, "one must say that she had good taste in dress. That's no harm, no; but certainly they must have the wherewithal. She was always a child. I remember she was twenty-six when they carried her away. Ah, how she loved hats!
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