She was in a very serious mood. Like most people who have not the gift of "taking things in their stride" new orientations were a heavy business. At school, as a little girl, she had shed many fears over her arithmetic. The process of mind improvement was not to be undertaken lightly. She could never be a Miss Babraham, but her ambition, in the words of her favourite song, was to be as like her as she was able to be.
Like true poets, however, Miss Babrahams were born. Such graces came from an inner harmony of nature. All the best fairies must have flocked to her christening. One minor gift she had which June allowed herself to covet, since it might fall within the scope of common mortals; it was the way in which her maid arranged her hair. June's own famous mane, which indirectly had brought such suffering upon her, had mercifully been spared; it had not even been "bobbed," and with careful tendence might again achieve its old magnificence. As shyly she confessed this ambition, which sprang less from vanity than simple pride in her one "asset," Miss Babraham assured her that nothing could be nicer than her own way of doing it.
From hair and the art of treating it they passed to other intimate topics; frocks and the hang of them; the knack of putting things on, in which Miss Babraham's gift of style filled June with envy since that, alas, she would never be able to copy; and above all, her friend's wonderful faculty of looking her best on all occasions.
As the good fairy, after a stay of a full hour, rose to go, she said, "If to-morrow morning is as fine as this morning, do you think you could come over to us?
