Connie stood uncertain just what to do. She was vaguely conscious that although she and Persis met upon common ground where their studies were concerned, in some other matters they were far apart. “I want you to have a good time,” she said, regretfully. “I don’t want you to mope up here.”
“I won’t mope,” assured Persis, earnestly, twisting her damp handkerchief nervously around her fingers. “I can’t go down with these red eyes. You go, Connie. I shall not mind; indeed I shall not. I am tired, and would rather go to bed.”
So Connie reluctantly piloted her to the room they were to share in company with Oriana, and there left her.
There was a lack of the little home comforts to which Persis had been accustomed, and this added to her homesick feeling. The dressing-bureau was littered with curl-papers and white with face-powder. Searching in vain for a match-safe, she finally discovered two or three matches in a pasteboard box on one end of the mantel. She did not know where to put her own little belongings or where to go for hot water, and with the feeling that in some way she had failed of acting as became a courteous guest Persis went heavy-hearted to bed.
In spite of her disturbed feelings, she soon fell asleep, but was awakened an hour later by the flaring up of a bright light, and turning over she saw that Connie and Oriana were preparing for bed. Then followed a long chatter of what “he” said and what “she” said, poor Persis, so unused to such disquiet, longing for a darkened room and solitude. How could she stand it till Monday? she questioned. What sort of people were these for the Dixons to know? What was she to do about that dreadful Bud, who reeked so of bad cologne and cigarettes, pared his nails in her presence, and walked out of the dining-room chewing a toothpick? What would Lisa say if she were to know of it? And in sober humility Persis hid her head in the pillow vainly longing for Monday to come.
“Mamma wanted me to be sure to see Mrs. Dixon,” she said to Connie the next day.
Connie’s eyes fell. “We’ll see her at church,” she returned. “She—she is my Sunday-school teacher.” And Persis understood. Of course, then, she has received gifts from Mrs. Dixon, has been to entertainments at her house, she reflected. But I am sure Mrs. Dixon could never be a friend of Mrs. Steuart’s; yet Connie told me she was a friend of her mother’s.
There was much manœuvring on the part of Bud to walk to church with the guest. He was not altogether a bad fellow, although underbred and lacking in delicate sensibility. Persis, however, clung closely to Mrs. Steuart, and managed to keep Connie by her most of the way. But a little ingenuity on the part of the others threw Bud into her company, and she had to make the best of it.
“Tell me about that general who was your ancestor, Mr. Stewart,” she said, hoping to start up a congenial topic.
Bud stared. “I’ve no ancestor like that,” he replied. “He must be one of Con’s folks. Yes, I remember. I’ve heard ma speak of him.”