“Desmonds!” she explained to Miss Folly. “I should know a Desmond if I met him in the desert of Sahara; this must be Mrs. Clifford. How do you do, Mrs. Clifford Desmond? I am Mrs. Damian. I came very near marrying your father-in-law a hundred years ago--or perhaps it was only fifty. Is this your elder daughter? I have seen the younger one; knew her for a Desmond across the Public Garden.”
“Is it possible that I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Damian?” cried the lady. “A most unexpected privilege! May I present my daughter Helena? Helena, my love, Mrs. Damian!” Mrs. Desmond spoke with great _empressement_. “It was my little Patricia you saw in the garden; my baby! She is a pupil here. Patricia, this way, darling! I wish to present you to Mrs. Damian.”
Patricia made her graceful reverence; greeted her mother civilly, though without enthusiasm, and turned to her sister.
“I believe you are, Pixie!” said Helena Desmond, known as Imperia to her friends and schoolmates. “Great weeds do grow apace, you know! I don’t believe you can wear the dress we have brought you from Paris. Who is the girl with red hair? She looks like a duck.”
“She speaks but to quack!” replied Patricia. “That is Honor Bright. She is going away--”
Patricia stopped abruptly. To her amazement and disgust, something seemed to swell up in her throat, choking her; at the same time her eyes began to blur and smart.
“Good-by!” she said. “I must go!” and she fairly ran away.
Honor now came flying up to greet Mrs. Damian. She, like Patricia, was in her running dress, a simple white tunic, reaching just below the knee; her bright hair floated on her shoulders. Mrs. Damian surveyed her with evident pleasure.
“Mrs. Clifford Desmond, this is my little cousin!” she said. “Seymour Bright’s daughter. I am taking her home with me soon. Well, Honor, and do you expect to win the apples? Eh?”
“It is that I shall do my possible!” Honor had made her pretty courtesy to both ladies, and was casting shy, admiring glances at Helena. She spoke now carefully, anxious to have her English correct; and naturally fell into the mistake of over-carefulness. “It is Patricia, who runs bestly, my aunt; we strive, each as we can, in our _manière_. Ah!” she started, and her hands came together with a clasp. “Graciously will to excuse me, mesdames! I see--”