Paper Faces by Rachel Anderson Page B

went wrong, then my name’s mud.”
    â€œWe shan’t be gone long. And Miss Lilian will be here to take her a nice little something on a tray if she wakes before we’re back. Won’t you, Lilian?”
    Loopy Lil clattered at the sink in the back scullery.
    â€œOh, heck. Might as well.”
    â€œSplendid, my dear. Then you hop in the back to keep the dogs company for me.”
    It was more exciting and comfortable to travel in the back of a Ford car than on any part of a bus, even top front. Dot sat with the yapping dogs on either side licking at her hands. The basket of flowers was on the shelf behind them. Not made of colored crepe paper, faded, dusty, and crinkled on bent-wire stems like Mrs. Parvis had in her parlor. But alive and dark and greenish, fragile and fragrant, dew on the petals and the crushed stems dripping with sap.
    â€œThose long ones have a lovely scent, don’t they?” said Mrs. Hollidaye over her shoulder. “I’m not sure if the purple ones are my favorite, or the more blue color.”
    She drove to a cottage where she helped an old woman bent in half like a crooked stump into the front passenger seat.
    Dot tried to imagine that the two women in front were her footmen and she was one of the royal princesses, preferably Margaret because she wouldn’t have to be queen, which would be quite a responsibility if you thought about it, going for a drive in a carriage with her regal dogs and her regal flowers. Then she realized she didn’t have to pretend to be anyone going anywhere when she already was herself going for a real drive in a car with two dogs beside her and fresh flowers behind.
    It wasn’t far. The bent lady with the bad legs was helped out. Mrs. Hollidaye parked beside a stone cross, under which lay a brown dog sleeping. Mrs. Hollidaye adjusted her hat pin, gathered up the flowers, and took Dot’s hand firmly in hers. She paused by the brown dog on the ground.
    â€œWhy, here’s Mr. Honeysett’s old Bess,” she said, bending down to stroke the dog’s muzzle.
    Dot thought how strange it was to be able to recognize a person’s dog even when the person wasn’t there, and then to know the dog’s name. It wasn’t like that in London. People didn’t even know most other people’s names, let alone their dogs’. In fact, Dot wasn’t at all sure if the dogs in London had names. Dogs’ names wasn’t something Mrs. Parvis had yet spoken about.
    â€œDear old thing. She must be thirteen at least. That’s about eighty in dog years.”
    Mrs. Hollidaye’s dogs were left inside the car, bobbing up at the rear window.
    â€œI’m afraid their noses are a little out of joint,” said Mrs. Hollidaye. “Never mind. They’ll just have to learn.”
    The old dog on the ground yawned and seemed almost to smile at them.
    â€œUp London,” said Dot, “we don’t have dogs so much.” She wished they did. It would be good to be greeted as you walked along by smiling creatures lying along the pavements. It would give Mr. Brown a surprise when he went to night school.
    In the village shop, Mrs. Hollidaye introduced Dot to the man in a brown overall who stood behind the wooden counter.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Bob,” she said. “This is a young friend, Dorothy. She’s come to visit us from London.”
    â€œFrom London!” said the grocer. He made it seem important and special. “Well, just fancy that! She must have seen a few sights in her time.”
    A lady in a black straw hat, who was being weighed out a pound of grits by the grocer’s assistant, overheard.
    â€œA tiny child from London!” she repeated. “Why, the poor creature! Oh, you little angel!” She darted over to embrace Dot so tightly that she couldn’t breathe.
    Dot had never been hugged by a stranger. Mrs. Parvis gave no sign of being interested in her, let