"No more have I, I only wish I had, so I'm going to pretend now that you're mine. What's the trouble? I don't like to see my third class girls crying."
Sylvia never forgot how kind Mercy was. She listened patiently to the whole matter, and then sat thinking for a while, and stroking Sylvia's fluffy hair.
"There seem to have been faults on both sides," she said at last. "Doesn't it strike you, dear, that it's just a little selfish of you to want to keep Linda entirely to yourself?"
"But she's my friend!" said Sylvia in astonishment.
"She was Hazel's first. Why can't you all be jolly together without this continual jealousy? You'd be a great deal happier."
"Ye-es," said Sylvia doubtfully. "What I feel, though, is that I mind so dreadfully, and I'm sure Linda doesn't care half as much, because she has Hazel."
"Perhaps she cares more than you think. If I were you I should go and tell her exactly what happened about the shoes, and say you're sorry. You'll have done your part at any rate, and if she likes to make it up she can."
Sylvia took Mercy's advice, and, finding Linda mooning aimlessly up and down the avenue, she went straight to the point without any further delay, and explained the whole affair.
"I'm afraid it was I who was cross," said Linda. "I've been feeling perfectly horrid all the morning. I hate being out of friends with anyone, and especially with you. I wish my wretched dancing shoes had been at the bottom of the sea. Have you planted all the bulbs yet? We meant to put the snowdrops in the middle, you know. I don't like my old garden at all. It's no fun doing it alone. Shall I bring back the primroses and the hepatica?"