“Oh,” negligently, “I hardly know her enough to say. There’s mighty little doing between our ranch and the Marchbanks place.”
“Is she very pretty?” Hilda asked the girl’s question, and reddened as Pearse answered, with a smile:
“You can tell whether she’s pretty or not by Fayte’s looks—they’re a good deal alike.”
Hilda thought Maybelle might be very good-looking, indeed, but some instinct kept her from saying so.
“Are there other young folks over where you’re living now?” She put it rather wistfully.
“Yes, plenty of them,” returned Pearse, and somehow Hilda felt chilled.
“Who?”
“Oh, most of the ranches have young folks on them. Our manager has a niece visiting him just now, from Galveston. She plays the piano beautifully.”
Hilda—tired, bedraggled, a truant at the music lessons—suddenly hated that girl from Galveston—and was ashamed of herself for the hatred—and couldn’t be content till she had more details for that hatred to feed on.
“Is she pretty?”