as you, my dear, thinking you look like Phyllis Dare with yon wee, wee
pigtail. You evidently haven't realised that a Scotch girl can't help
looking sensible. That graceful butterfly frivolity that comes so easy
to the English, and, I've haird, the French, is not for us. I think it's
something about our ankles that prevents us." She looked at the girl's
feet, said "Ay!" in a manner that hinted that they confirmed her theory,
and turned away, remarking over her shoulder, "Mind you, I admire your
spirit, setting out to look like one of these light English actresses
when your name's Davidina Todd." The wind was trying to tear the poster
from the cord that held it to her waist, the cold was making her sniff,
and as she gave her back to this flimsy little fool she caught sight of
a minister standing a yard or two away and giggling "Tee hee!" at her.
It was too much. She darted down on him. "Are you not Mr. Hunter of the
Middleton Place United Free Church?" she asked, making her voice sound
soft and cuddly.

He wiped the facetiousness from his face and assented with a polite
bob. Perhaps she was the daughter of an elder. Quite nice people were
taking up this nonsense.

"I heard you preach last Sunday," she said, glowing with interest. He
began to look coy. Then her voice changed to something colder than the
wind. "The most lamentable sairmon I ever listened to. Neither lairning
nor inspiration. And a _read_ sairmon, too."

As his black back threaded through the traffic remorse fell upon her.
"Here's an opportunity for doing quiet, uncomplaining service to the
Cause," she reproached herself, "and I'm turning it into a fair picnic
for my tongue." Everyone was rubbish, and she herself was no exception.
Her hair was nearly down. And she had to stay there for another hour.