Mitchell. Well,
Phebe, what now?"
"I heard my name and thought I'd come and take a hand in the discussion,"
Phebe announced, as she strolled into the room. "Have I done anything you
don't like? If I have, just mention it."
"Nothing more than usual," Theodora said, laughing. "Goodness me, Babe!
What's that?"
"What's what?" Phebe cast an apprehensive glance behind her.
"In your hand?"
"That? Oh, that's my tibia. I was studying where it articulates into the
fibula. It's ever so nice. Just see the cunning little grooves."
"Booh!" Theodora laughed, even in her disgust. "I am not weak-minded,
Babe, but those things do not appeal to me."
"Every one to his taste," Phebe said loftily. "I like bones better than
Browning, myself. Isabel St. John thinks she will be a nurse."
"Then you can hunt in pairs," Theodora commented irreverently. "I pity
the patient. Do you really like this sort of thing, Babe?"
Phebe rested her cheek meditatively against the upper end of her tibia.
"Yes, of course; or else I shouldn't be doing it. Bones, that is, dead
ones, are nice and neat; and I don't think I should mind setting live
ones. Of course it isn't going to be all bones; but I suppose even
literature has its disagreeable sides."
"Yes," Theodora assented, with a passing memory of the pillow reposing
on the lawn outside her window.
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