imposing, so important about him. She was conscious that a man so
much older might not appeal to many girls of her age, but it so
happened that he did appeal to her. She would be able to have
everything she wished, too--didn't she know how good, how kind,
how tender he could be. And her heart yearned toward him--he was
so clearly misunderstood, unhappy. But what about Aunt Rose?
Well, then, why had she let herself get to be so ugly? She looked
as if the greases of her own kitchen stove had cooked into her
skin, thought the girl, mercilessly. Didn't she know there was
such a thing as a powder puff? Women like that brought their own
troubles upon themselves, that's what they did. And she was an
old prude, too. Anyone could see with half an eye that she didn't
like the idea of Uncle Martin learning to dance--why, she didn't
even like his getting the Victrola--when it was just what both he
and Bill had been wanting. But for all that she was her aunt, her
own mother's sister and, poor dear, she was a good soul. It would
probably upset her awfully and besides, oh well, it just wasn't
right.

Before her mirror Rose blushed furiously, quite ashamed of the
light way in which she had been leading Uncle Martin on. "But I
haven't said one solitary thing auntie couldn't have heard," she
justified herself. Oh, well, no harm had been done. But she
mustn't stay here, that was certain. She wouldn't say so, or hurt
their feelings, for she wanted to be on the best of terms with
them always, but she would stop flirting with Uncle Martin and
just turn him back into a dear good friend. She hoped she was
clever enough to do that much. And the dark-brown curls received
a brushing that left no doubt of the vigor of her decisions.