"Yes."

"Kin I go now?"

"Yes."

She laid her books one on the top of the other and lingered an instant.

"Been quite well?" she asked with indolent politeness.

"Yes--thank you."

"You're lookin' right peart."

She walked with a Southern girl's undulating languor to the door, opened
it, then charged suddenly upon Octavia Dean, twirled her round in a
wild waltz and bore her away; appearing a moment after on the playground
demurely walking with her arm around her companion's waist in an
ostentatious confidence at once lofty, exclusive, and exasperating to
the smaller children.

When school was dismissed that afternoon and the master had remained to
show Rupert Filgee how to prepare Uncle Ben's tasks, and had given his
final instructions to his youthful vicegerent, that irascible Adonis
unburdened himself querulously:

"Is Cressy McKinstry comin' reg'lar, Mr. Ford?"

"She is," said the master dryly. After a pause he asked, "Why?"