"I'm not," with decision. "Because they've got no tails to wag themselves, they object to our wagging ours."
"But hasn't the last four years changed all that?" she asked.
"You can walk down Piccadilly during the Season in a cap and a soft collar," conceded Beresford, "but that scarcely implies emancipation."
"I don't agree with you," she said smilingly.
"But a change en masse doesn't imply the growth of individuality," he persisted. "If all the potatoes in the world suddenly took it into their heads to become red, or all the cabbages blue, we should merely remark the change and promptly become accustomed to it."
"I see what you mean," she said, and he noticed a slight twitching at the corners of her mouth. "You mean that I'm a red potato, or a blue cabbage."
He laughed. This girl was singularly easy to talk to.
"I'm afraid I'm something of a red potato myself," he confessed. "It's only a few days ago that my aunt told me so. She expressed it differently; but no doubt that was what she meant."
"Oh; but I have to bleach again in a few days," she said. "Within a week I have to meet auntie in London, and then I shall become afraid of the rain because of my frocks and hats." She made a moue of disgust; then, catching Beresford's eye, she laughed.
