All this Pearl wrote, day by day. But she could not write the thing which of all others she knew Mr. Wood wanted to hear--that Antonia was dressed like a nice little girl. The best she could say was that the child was not actually dirty. Nor could she say that she had gained Mrs. Conway's friendship. That lady remained aloof, a little malicious, always in the opposition, treating Pearl's triumphs as petty tyrannies over the children's free spirits, treating Pearl's failures as splendid triumphs in the field of human freedom.
When Pearl appealed to her with "I don't think Antonia ought to wear that torn dress to Olive's for tea, Mrs. Conway," Edna would smile and answer, "You know, Miss Exeter, I can't think those things a matter of life and death the way you do. I own I should be sorry if at eleven she thought of nothing but dress."
"Like Dolly," said Antonia.
That, Pearl discovered, was the secret of Antonia's dislike of neatness. She was afraid of being like Dolly--Dolly, who represented simply everything of which Antonia disapproved.
All this Pearl wrote to Anthony; long, long letters composed after the rest of the household were in bed. "It is long after midnight, and I should be in bed instead of writing----"
She paused. The well-known illustrator who had done her picture for the cleaning-fluid firm had told her--and the illustrator was herself a beautiful woman, experienced in the ways of the world--that all love letters from unmarried girls