It was true, to Lilian’s surprise, that Alice Nevins had clasped both arms around her and kissed her rapturously, exclaiming—“You are so sweet! Oh, I wish mother and father would adopt you! I’d just like to have you for a sister. I’ve never seen a girl before that I wanted.”
Lilian freed herself and went to her room. She was not an effusive girl. At Laconia she had made some friends, but she was too proud to aspire to the higher ranks or accept overtures from them. She felt sorry for Alice Nevins but there was no real companionship. Yet was there not a duty? She seemed to occupy a peculiar position, and loved to listen to the fascinating bits of talk, places one and another had seen, music, operas, paintings, lectures, a knowledge of real things, not merely those gleamed from books.
Well, she must earn them herself. She used to dream of them at nights when the lights were put out. She was changing curiously, she felt it herself. It was not only in the added self-reliance, the nameless little ways of refinement and grace the intuitive knowledge of what we call good breeding, and the cordial smile of commendation from Mrs. Barrington thrilled every pulse.
Mrs. Boyd was not vulgar but she was undeniably commonplace. High thoughts such as stirred Lilian in verse, never roused her. Yet the girl did feel indignant at times at the manner in which some of the girls addressed her mother when they were uniformly polite to Miss Arran.
She was quite undecided about her duty to Miss Nevins. The kiss had come so suddenly she had no time to evade it but she took good care to do so the next night. Lilian had never been an effusive girl. She had almost broken her mother’s heart in her little more than babyhood, when after a rapturous caress she had half pulled from the enclosing arms and said in a willful fashion—“Don’t kiss me so hard, I don’t liked to be kissed!” And later on when her mother had always called her Lily, she had said emphatically—“Why don’t you call me Lilian! I’m too big a girl to be called by such a baby name as Lily and I don’t like it.”
That began a sort of gulf between them that the mother never had the courage to bridge over. There was a curious dignity about her that even the obtuse Miss Nevins could not surmount.
One day the girl brought her two beautiful orchids.
“You’ve been so good about my lessons that I wanted to do something, and these were”—hesitatingly—
“Handsome and expensive,” in a chilling tone. “They were the finest things the florist had, and mamma always sends me some money in her letters, while papa sends my allowance to Mrs. Barrington. So I feel that is clear gain,” laughing. “Mrs. Barrington is rather strict about allowances, and she’s shut down on so much sweets and hot chocolates. Do you think it hurts one’s complexion?”
“It certainly hurts yours. I would give them up, and so much cake; the regular school living is good enough, and you should take a cold bath in the morning.”