“Well, sit down--” said Leslie, “that is, if you can find a place!” And I pushed aside a pile of silk under-things that was on the end of a lounge, and roosted there. And then I waited to have Leslie ask how I was, because at home that always comes first. People usually sit in rocking chairs, and the called on person will say, as they rock, “Well, now Mrs. Jones, how are _you_?” And after the caller answers, they get along to the children and then ask about the father, and next about how the canning is getting on, or the housecleaning, or the particular activity that belongs to the season. It is _always_ like that in our town with any one who calls, which I consider polite and interested and nice; but I didn’t get it with Leslie; instead she went right on unpacking. I looked at her with a good deal of interest, and I decided that she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Her hair is very light in shade and texture, and she wears it straight off her forehead, flat at the sides, and in a psyche knot. (I learned later that Paris is through with the puffs) She is tall and thin and graceful, and her skin is fair and it flushes easily. Her lashes and brows are dark, and her lashes curl up, (a few days later I saw her help them curl up with a little brush) and she has a classic profile, slender hands and feet, and a languorous, slow way of looking at a person that can be either flattering or--flatt_en_ing. Viola was another story, and just the way she looked explained every single thing about her. You could see that she was a _follower_. Her hair had been bobbed, and she had had to bob it, not because it was becoming to her, but because every one was bobbing it. Now she wore it as nearly as Leslie wore hers as she could, with a net over it, and millions of pins to keep the short ends of the slowly lengthening hair from flying. Her eyebrows were what she called “Frenched” which meant that she pulled them out and screeched terribly while doing it, and her finger nails were too pointed and too shiny. Her mouth was too big, and her chin receded a little, but she might have been nice looking if she hadn’t made such a freak of herself. She didn’t look _natural_ at all, and she wasn’t pretty enough to justify all the fuss that the stupidest person could see she made over every detail. She sat on a corner of the table, swinging her legs and humming. [Illustration: “Isn’t this simply ghastly?”] “Isn’t this simply ghastly?” Leslie asked of me, after an interval of some minutes’ quiet. “What?” I asked. “Why, this _place_. I don’t know _what_ Aunt Sheila was _thinking_ of!” then she dumped dozens of pairs of colored silk stockings out on the floor, and began to take out more and prettier dresses than I had ever seen before in all my life. “How’d your frocks stand the crossing, dear?” asked Viola lazily.