"Little girl? I don't see much 'little girl' about it; I'm nearly
sixteen." She gathered her skirt over her arm again, and
retreated with angry dignity.

As for David, he went back to try a new tie; but his eyes were
dreamy. "George! she's a daisy," he said to himself.

When, the day before, Mrs. Richie had told her son that she had
been invited to Blair's party, he was delighted. David had
learned several things at school besides his prayers, some of
which caused Mrs. Richie, like most mothers of boys, to give much
time to her prayers. But as a result, perhaps of prayers as well
as of education, and in spite of Mr. Ferguson's misgivings as to
the wisdom of trusting a boy to a "good woman," he was turning
out an honest young cub, of few words, defective sense of humor,
and rather clumsy manners. But under his speechlessness and
awkwardness, David was sufficiently sophisticated to be immensely
proud of his pretty mother; only a laborious sense of propriety
and the shyness of his sex and years kept him from, as he
expressed it, "blowing about her." He blew now, however, a
little, when she said she was going to the party: "Blair'll be
awfully set up to have you come. You know he's terribly mashed on
you. He thinks you are about the best thing going. Materna, now
you dress up awfully, won't you? I want you to take the shine out
of everybody else. I'm going to wear my dress suit," he
encouraged her. "Why, say!" he interrupted himself, "that's
funny--Blair didn't tell me he had asked you."

"Mrs. Maitland asked me."