BEAUTIFUL JULIA—AND MY LORD
then, drawing away, looked her over. Sophy was tall beyond her years, and her head was nearly on a level with Julia's. She was in her short print gown, with her kitchen apron on; her sleeves rolled up, her face red from the fire, her hands too, no doubt, red from washing vegetables and dishes. "She looked like Cinderella in the first act of a pantomime," is Miss Robins's professional comment—colored, perhaps, also by subsequent events.
"You're beautiful!" cried Sophy. "Oh, that shirt—I love red!" And so on for some time, no doubt.
"Tell me about it; tell me everything about it," she urged. "It's the next best thing, you know."
Miss Robins recounted her adventures: they would not seem very dazzling at this distance. Sophy heard them with ardent eyes; they availed to color the mark on her cheek to a rosy tint. "That's being alive," she said, with a deep-drawn sigh.
Julia patted her hand consolingly. "But I'm twenty!" she reminded her friend. "Think how young you are!"
"Young or old's much the same in the kitchen," Sophy grumbled. Linking arms, they walked up the avenue. The Rector was approaching from the church. Sophy tried to draw her arm away. Julia held it tight. The Rector came up, lifted his hat—and, maybe, his brows. But he stopped and said a few pleasant words to Julia. He had never pretended to approve of this stage career, but Julia had now passed beyond his jurisdiction. He was courteous to her as to any lady. Official position betrayed itself only as he was taking leave— and only in regard to Sophy Grouch.
"Ah, you keep up old friendships," he said—with a rather forced approval. "Please don't unsettle the
23
