Her hair was brown
and blown all about her head, and her face was tanned to a rich brown--a
very bad complexion then, but just the thing the society girl of to-day
likes to show when she returns from the seashore.
When her family had halted, she did not come to them at once, but made a
circuit or two about the camp, like a shy bird coming to its nest, or as
if she hated to do it; and when she did come it was in a sort of defiant
way, swinging herself and tossing her head, and looking at every one as
bold as brass. I was staring at the astonishing horse, the queer wagon,
and the whole outfit with more curiosity than manners, I reckon, when
she came into the circle, and caught my unmannerly eye.
"Well," she said, her face reddening under the tan, "if you see anything
green throw your hat at it! Sellin' gawp-seed, or what is your
business?"
"I beg your pardon," "I meant no offense," and even "Excuse me" were
things I had never learned to say. I had learned to fight any one who
took offense at me; and if they didn't like my style they could lump
it--such was my code of manners, and the code of my class. To beg pardon
was to knuckle under--and it took something more than I was master of in
the way of putting on style to ask to be excused, even if the element of
back-down were eliminated. Remember, I had been "educated" on the canal.
So I tried to look her out of countenance, grew red, retreated, and went
about some sort of needless work without a word--completely defeated.
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