Genevieve Maud reclined in a geranium-bed in an attitude of unstudied
ease. On her fat body was a white dress, round her waist was a wide,
blue sash, perched on one side of her head was a flaunting blue bow,
and in her heart was bitterness. It was dimly comforting to lie down
in all this finery, but it did not really help much. She brooded
darkly upon her wrongs. They were numerous, and her cherubic little
face took on additional gloom as she summed them up. First, she had
been requested to be good--a suggestion always unwelcome to the
haughty soul of Genevieve Maud, and doubly so this morning when she
saw no alternative but to obey it. Secondly, there was no one to play
with--a situation depressing to any companionable being, and
grindingly so to one who considered all men her peers, all women her
unquestioning slaves, and all animals grateful ministers to her needs
in lowlier fields of delight.

These delusions, it must be admitted, had been fostered during the
four short but eventful years of Genevieve Maud's life. Her method of
approach had been singularly compelling; old and young paused not to
argue, but freely stripped themselves of adornments she fancied, and
animals, from the kitten she carried round by one ear to the great St.
Bernard she half strangled in recurring moments of endearment, bore
with her adoringly, and humbly followed the trail of cake she left
behind her when she tired of them and trotted off in search of fresh
attractions. These were usually numerous; and had they been rarer, the
ingenuity of Genevieve Maud would have been equal to the test. There
were no social distinctions in her individual world. But one short
year ago she had followed a hand-organ man and a monkey to a point
safely distant from too-observant relatives and servants; there,