"No doubt," assented Mrs. Major. "It is always wise to be careful."
Bee laughed. "But even if we don't know your friends, dear, and even if we are out of it all, I hope we shall see you sometimes, when you can spare half-an-hour. You must not make a burden of it."
Magda felt ashamed. "Of course I shall come," she said. "And if—if my mother—" she stopped, hardly knowing what she had meant to say.
"I want so much to know your mother," Bee observed.
"But—but I'm not quite sure—" faltered Magda. "You see—mother isn't very strong—and she has so many calls to pay—and I'm not sure—if she—"
It was impossible to finish the sentence, in face of Bee's soft wondering eyes, still more in face of Mrs. Major's steady gaze and air of composed waiting. Magda found her feet awkwardly, with crimsoning cheeks.
"I'm so sorry, I can't stay longer now," she added. "I'll come again soon, if I may."
"Pray come any day that you feel inclined," Mrs. Major responded easily, with no apparent consciousness of what Magda had meant. "Bee's friends will always be welcome at Virginia Villa." She said the name in precisely the same tone that she might have used to say "Claughton Manor," or "Windsor Castle."
Bee went out to see Magda through the little front door, coming back with a shadow on her face.
"I'm rather disappointed in your friend, my dear. But she may improve on a further acquaintance. Is she always like this?"