Her hands were long and well shaped, not small, but competent looking, a
great contrast to her mother's, as well as to Miss Lavinia's, that could
slip easily into a five-and-a-half glove. She wore a graceful afternoon
gown of pale blue with lace butterflies on the blouse and skirt, held in
at waist and neck by enamelled butterfly buckles. She moved gracefully,
and had a strong individuality, a warmth of nature that contrasted
keenly with the statuesque perfection of her mother, and I fell to
wondering what her father was like, and if she resembled him.
"Not yet, not until late spring," I heard her say in answer to Miss
Lavinia's question as to whether her father had returned from his
Japan tour.
"He is detained by railway business in San Francisco, and cannot go
farther north to settle it until winter breaks. I've written him to ask
leave to join him and perhaps stop awhile at Los Angeles and go up to see
my brother on his Wyoming ranch in May. I do so hope he will let me. I've
tried to coax mamma to go too, she has had such a wearing life this
winter in trying to make it pleasant for me and introduce me to her
friends. I wish I could tell her exactly how much I should prefer to be
more alone with her. I do not want her to think me ungrateful, but to go
out with her to father and pay dear old Carthy a visit would be simply
splendid."
Then turning to me she said, I thought with a little quiver in her
voice, "They tell me you live with your father, Mrs.
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