"I don't. But I'm going to like her all right. Some things you know
right here"--she put her hand on her breast. "Father's been wanting
mother to ask her for a long time, but mother said she knew she
didn't have clothes like New York people wore, and it might make her
feel badly. I heard them talking one night, and father said the
Keiths didn't have to depend on their clothes to show where they
belonged, so mother invited her; but I don't think she wanted to very
much. Do you suppose?"--she came toward him, and, with her hands on
the arms of his chair, searched his face--"Do you suppose she will be
very country-looking?"

"I really couldn't guess. People who live in the backwoods and miles
from a railroad are not apt to be leaders of fashion. Doubtless her
hands will be red and her face will be red and her hair will be red,
but--"

"I don't care how red she is, I'm going to love her. I can tell by
her letters!" Dorothea's shoulders were back and her eyes were
shining. "And I don't see why you say things like that! I don't
think you are very polite!"

"I don't, either. I think I'm very impolite. It may be, you know,
that her eyes will be blue and her lips will be blue and her skin
will be blue--"

"And that will be worse than red. I thought you were going to be
glad she was coming. Aren't you glad?"

"Shall I tell the truth, or be polite?"