HATE a Laura-Matilda girl!"—Rosette's tone was scornful in the extreme.
"A woman should be womanly," said I doggedly.
"You don't mean womanly. You mean Early Victorian, lackadaisical, sentimental, useless, fragile, clinging—"
"Don't stop," I said mildly.
"Perhaps you like a girl to be clinging?"
"Perhaps I do," said I gently. "I've never seen you in a clinging mood, Rosette."
"You never will," she returned smartly.
"Alas, no." I sighed.
"There was Doris Lee. She was your kind of girl. She stayed with us once when my cousin Georgie was here, and nearly drove him mad. She clung to him."
" A nice, gentle girl, Doris Lee," I said affectionately. "The sort of a girl a man can idealize."
"The sort of girl a man runs away from in six months," cried Rosette.
"You're too advanced for me," said I sadly.
"That's what her husband did. She was just the same at school, Laura-Matilda all through, hanging round our necks, leaning on our arms when we went for walks, holding our hands till she nearly drove us mad. All her books were full of dried flowers; all sacred memories; only she'd forgotten what of. I hate sentiment."
"I know you do," said I mournfully.
"I was fond of her in a way," Rosette said. "And I used to have her here with me for the holidays, because she had such a wretched home, full of whining children, and a complaining, peevish mother. I've since thought that she might have tried to do something to brighten that home up, if she'd been any good, instead of spending her holidays in floods of tears. I hate a fool!"
"Poor Doris Lee," said I softly.
"Poor Doris Fiddlesticks!" cried Rosette. "I ought to have known better than to encourage her. I had to send her away at last, because Daddy said he wouldn't stand the way she sat and held my hand—or anybody's hand who'd let her. He said it made him sick. So I gave up asking her in the end. She married the kind of serious young man with ideals, who likes a woman to be gentle and womanly, and dependent, and clinging! And you see the end of it. She's gone into a sisterhood now to wear gray serge for ever, and she always looked impossible in gray."
"I've never known you so vindictive," said I, "so spiteful. What is the matter with you to-day. Rosette?"
Her face was flushed adorably; her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. This my calm, immovable Rosette?
"You said you liked a woman to be womanly, Jerry. You said you admired the Laura-Matilda kind of girl. You were talking at me all the time!"
I stared at her in amazement.
"You are the most womanly woman I have ever known," said I slowly. "But I didn't mean what you mean, Rosette."
"Yes, you did. Besides, how do you know exactly what I meant that you meant? You said you liked a woman to be clinging! You know you did. I'll take jolly good care that I never cling to—" She stopped in time.
"To me?" I asked. "I'm afraid not."
"I'd be ashamed to be dependent and irresolute and bullied and—and—'thank you very much for wiping your shoes on me, dear Sir!' Oh!"
"Rosette!" I caught her hand and held it firmly for an instant. "Listen to me! You shall listen to me, you little fury. I hate Laura-Matilda and always did. The things I like best in you, are your resourcefulness, and your self-sufficiency." I lied boldly, but I daren't tell her the truth. "I admire you tremendously for your pluck, and your presence of mind,and your independence, and all the rest of it. I—I do really."
She took her hand away and eyed me suspiciously.
"All you men like the Early Victorian girl best," said she with a disdainful sniff. "You like a woman to sit at home waiting for you, warming your cross-stitch slippers, with some church embroidery in one hand and a vinaigrette in the other. You like a woman to faint with joy when you throw her a kind word. It shows her sensibility."
"I'm going home," said I quietly. "I shall not stay here to be abused and libeled. You know the kind of woman I like best. I'm going home."
She broke into a pretty, infectious laugh.
"Don't go, Jerry. I'm better now. And I want to tell you about Primula and my brother Myles."
I sighed, that as usual she was prepared to point her moral, and adorn it with a tale.
"I've never heard of your cousin Primula," said I feebly. "I believe you've invented her for the occasion. I don't believe there's no sich person."
"She's a missionary in Borneo now," said Rosette promptly. "But she was a splendid little girl when she was sixteen. Not pretty; but strong, and jolly, and athletic, and the most capable person I have ever known. You should see her take a bicycle to pieces."