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"I understand everything," she announced, confidingly; and mystically believed it.

"Yes, but he doesn't think so," warned Amy, in grave alarm. "Or he wouldn't be telling lies at such a rate. It isn't true that Dolly Fletcher's the daughter of a Russian prince and a charwoman."

"Oh, but wouldn't it be nice if she was!" cried Patricia.

"Exactly," agreed Harry, and proceeded to embroider his legend. "You see the short nose of the Russian of high caste, and hear the accent of the London back street. Notice the powder, the scent, the gold chain; the fur edging to her frock. You can imagine snow on her shoes and a pail in her hand. You can imagine waves of dirty water slopping just under the edge of the bed, and silk underclothing, and cosmetics, and a bath on the first Sunday of the Month—as a rarefied sensual indulgence."

"She does look dirty," admitted Amy, scrutinizing Dolly. "It's her skin. But she's a very decent sort."

This was said defiantly, while Patricia wondered. How strange! It was the first flaw that she had found in her handsome new friend, and it was unwelcome. She wished he had not spoken in that way. It troubled her.