"
"My hands are all stained up with currant jelly," explained Fanny
hurriedly. "Your hands are real pretty, Ellen."
Ellen glanced down at her capable, brown hands, with their blunt
finger-tips.
"Did you ever notice _her_ hands, Fanny?"
Fanny shook her head.
"Her nails are cut kind of pointed, and all shined up. And her hands
are so little and soft and white. I suppose a man--do you think Jim
would notice that sort of thing, Fanny?"
Fanny snapped the fastenings of her gloves.
"Let's go down stairs," she suggested. "They'll be wondering what's
become of us."
"Say, Fan!"
Ellen Dix caught at her friend's arm, her pretty face, with its full
pouting lips and brilliant dark eyes upturned.
"Well?"
"Do you suppose-- You don't think Jim is mad at me for what I said
about _her_, do you?"
"I don't remember you said anything to make anybody mad. Come, let's
go down, Ellen."
"But, Fan, I was wondering if that girl-- Do you know I--I kind of
wish she hadn't come to Brookville. Everything seems--different,
already. Don't you think so, Fanny?"
"Oh, I don't know. Why should you think about it? She's here and
there's no use. I'm going down, Ellen."
Fanny moved toward the stairs, her fresh young beauty heightened by
an air of dignified reserve which Ellen Dix had failed to penetrate.
Wesley Elliot, who had by now reached the wide opening into the hall
in the course of his progress among the guests, glanced up as Fanny
Dodge swept the last step of the stair with her unfashionable white
gown.
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