brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove, with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright.
"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee.
"Good name for it; it's very pretty—new thing, isn't it?"
"It's as old as the hills; you have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now—stupide!"
"I never saw it on you, before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."
"None of that, it is forbidden; I'd rather take coffee than compliments, just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."
Laurie sat bolt upright, and meekly took her empty plate, feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having "little Amy" order him about; for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irresistible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection.
"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked, with a quizzical look.
"As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.
"Well—the general air, the style, the self-possession, the—the—illusion—you know," laughed Laurie, breaking down, and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.
Amy was gratified, but, of course, didn't show it, and demurely answered,—