But I wouldn't have any real right to it.
You have to be in the direct line of descent, you know, and it is silly for us Americans to try to hang on by a hair to the main trunk of the family tree, when all the world knows we belong on the outside branches." There was no answer to this and the dressing proceeded in a silence as profound as the morning's, until Mary saw that Ethelinda was struggling in a frantic effort to free herself from the hooks of her dress which had caught in her hair.
"Wait," she called, hurrying to the rescue.

"Let me hook it for you.
What a perfect dream of a gown it is!" she added in frank admiration, as she deftly fastened it up the back.

"It looks like the kind in the fairy tales that are woven out of moon-beams.

Here, let me fix your hair, where the hooks pulled it loose." She tucked in the straggling locks with a few soft pats and touches which, with the compliment, mollified Ethelinda a trifle, in spite of her resentment over the former speech.

But it still rankled, and she could not forbear saying a little spitefully, "Thanks! What a soft, light touch you have.