Nor did she—altogether. Early hours were the rule at the Vicarage; and by half-past ten a general exodus took place. Wraps were donned, amid talk and laughter, in the breakfast-room; and Amy, standing grimly apart from the rest, found Magda offering a good-bye hand, all smiles.
"Hasn't it been a delightful evening?" Magda was saying.
Amy had always been impulsive; and she was so still, though fast leaving girlhood behind. Without an instant's pause for thought, and not so much as remembering her promise to Bee, she spoke words which leaped up in her mind—
"To you, I dare say! But—I couldn't—in your place! I call it—poaching!"
Then, with sudden contrition, as a flame of colour rushed into Magda's face, she knew what she had done. "What do you mean?" came involuntarily.
"Oh, nothing!" Amy tried to laugh. "I'm talking nonsense. Good-bye."
Magda hesitated an instant; then walked off, holding her head high.
"I can't endure that Miss Smith," she said disdainfully to Pen, as they drove home. "Such a stupid ordinary little person! I can't imagine what Bee sees to like in her."
Pen made some chilling reply. She was not pleased with Magda's prominence during the two past evenings.
But Amy had blundered again. She had opened Magda's eyes.