Kathleen O'Hara clung to Ruth Craven's arm; she kept talking to her and
asking her questions.
"You needn't reply unless you like, pet," she said. "All I want is just
to look into your face. I adore beauty; I worship it more than anything
else on earth. I was brought up in the midst of it. I never saw anything
uglier than poor old Towser when he broke his leg and cut his upper jaw;
but although he was ugly, he was the darling of my heart. He died, and I
cried a lot. I can't quite get over it. Yes, I suppose I am uncivilised,
and I never want to be anything else. Do you think I want to copy those
nimby-pimby girls over there, or that lot, or that?"
"You had better not point, please, Miss O'Hara," said Ruth. "They won't
like it."
"What do I care whether they like it or not?" said Kathleen. "I wasn't
brought here to curry favor with them. What would my darling father say
if I told him that I was going to curry favor with the girls of the
Great Shirley School? And what would mother say? No, no; I may pick up
a few smatterings, or I may not, but there is one thing certain: I mean
to make a friend of you, Ruth--yes, a great big bosom friend. You will
be fond of me, won't you?"
"I like you now," said Ruth. "I know you are kind, and you are very
pretty."
"Why, then, darling," said Kathleen, "is it the Blarney Stone you have
kissed? You have a sweet little voice of your own, although it hasn't
the dear touch of the brogue that I miss so in all the other girls.
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