"Linda," he asked suddenly, "do you know that one of these days
you're going to be a beautiful woman?"
Linda turned her skewers with intense absorption. At first he
almost thought she had not heard him, but at last she said
quietly: "Do you really think that is possible, Donald?"
"You're lovely right now !" answered the boy promptly.
"For goodness' sake, have an eye single to your record for truth
and veracity," said Linda. "Doesn't this begin to smell zippy?"
"It certainly does," said Donald. "It's making me ravenous. But
honest, Linda, you are a pretty girl."
"Honest, your foot!" said Linda scornfully. "I am not a pretty
girl. I am lean and bony and I've got a beak where I should have
a nose. Speaking of pretty girls, my sister, Eileen, is a pretty
girl. She is a downright beautiful girl."
"Yes," said Donald, "she is, but she can't hold a candle to you.
How did she look when she was your age?"
"I can't remember Eileen," said Linda, "when she was not
exquisitely dressed and thinking more about taking care of her
shoes than anything else in the world. I can't remember her when
she was not curled, and even when she was a tiny thing Mother put
a dust of powder on her nose. She said her skin was so delicate
that it could not bear the sun. She never could run or play or
motor much or do anything, because she has always had to be saved
for the sole purpose of being exquisitely beautiful. Talk about
lilies of the field, that's what Eileen is! She is an improvement
on the original lily of the field--she's a lily of the drawing
room.
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