t's not nice for a young girl to talk about legs," said Mrs. West a
little primly, making the slightest possible pause before the last
words.

"But why, mother?" persisted Dorothy.

"It's--it's not quite nice."

"Well, mine are, anyway," said Dorothy with a little grimace. "Now we
must be off."

Mrs. West merely sighed, the sigh of one who fails to understand.

"Mother dear," said Dorothy, observing the sigh, "if I didn't laugh I'm
afraid I should cry." All the brightness had left her as she looked
down at her mother. "I wonder why it is?" she added musingly.

To Mrs. West, Saturday afternoons were the oases in her desert of
loneliness. During the long and solitary days of the week, she looked
forward with the eagerness of a child to the excursions Dorothy never
failed to plan for her entertainment. If it were dull or wet, there
would be a matinee or the pictures; if fine they would go to Kew,
Richmond, or the Zoo. It was an understood thing that Mrs. West should
know nothing about the arrangement until the actual day itself.

"I think," remarked Dorothy, as they walked across Kew Bridge, "that I
must be looking rather nice to-day. That's the third man who has given
me the glad-eye since----"

"Oh, Dorothy! I wish you wouldn't say such dreadful things," protested
Mrs. West in genuine distress.

Slipping her arm through her mother's, the girl squeezed it to her side.

"I know I'm an outrageous little beast," she said, "but I love shocking
you, you dear, funny little mother, and--and you know I love you, don't
you?"

"But suppose anyone heard you, dear, what would they think?" There was
genuine concern in Mrs. West's voice.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully respectable with other people. I never talk to
John Dene about legs or glad-eyes, really." Her eyes were dancing with
mischief as she looked down at her mother. "Now I'll promise to be
good for the rest of the day; but how can a girl say prunes and prisms
with a mouth like mine. It's too wide for that, and then there are
those funny little cuts at the corners; they are what make me wicked,"
she announced with a wise little nod.

Mrs. West sighed once more; she had learned that it was useless to
protest when her daughter was in her present mood.

They entered the Gardens, and for an hour walked about absorbing their
atmosphere of peace and warmth, sunlight and shadow and the song of
birds; the war seemed very far away.

Presently they seated themselve