"And what about the next group?" asked the Dream.
"Oh, that was worse, a great deal worse. They were all talking about the people in the other groups, saying all sorts of dreadful things about them, or ridiculing them; and some were whispering together about each other, and two of them started to tell me things about all of the rest; and then when one would go, they would all begin to talk about that one. By and by I got away, but I hated to go because I knew that they would begin talking about me the minute that my back was turned."
"They did," said the Dream, "and then they all laughed."
Marjorie's face flushed. "I ought not to care," she said, "but I do. One hates to be talked about or laughed at even if one does know that it doesn't really matter as long as one is doing the best that she knows how."
"It isn't pleasant," said the Dream, "but you are right, it really doesn't matter. If you start to worrying about what people say, then your troubles really will begin."
"And the next group," said Marjorie, "just looked me over as if I were a dummy in a new style of frock or a polar bear or something; and so I didn't stop."
"Well, the next group didn't treat you that way," said the Dream.
"No," said Marjorie, "they came out to meet me, and petted me and flattered me, and were loud and noisy and telling silly stories and eating
