She looked disgusted. "Had we not better change the subject?"
"By all means." And I searched my mind for one. "Was n't the race glorious?" I began.
She did not look pleased. "My brother is at Yale," said she, "and my heart is as blue as -" she paused.
"As your blood?"
"Bluer. Yes," she smiled, "much more so."
"Than -" And a thought came into my head, - a mean, an unfair thought. Here was a chance to punish her for knowing - nay, for showing that she knew more than I.
"Bluer than your stockings?" said I. It was a brutal thing; I confess it.
She did not understand at first; she looked at her feet : her boots were who shall say how high, and no tell-tale color showed. Then she looked up at me, "But -" And then it flashed over her. Her color, deep already, rose to her forehead. She did not speak, but rose and sailed out of the room.
And yet I had only classed her with Mrs. Stowe and Currer Bell.
M. B.