“Nobody really,” stoutly maintained Peggy. “Even the ones who talked too much didn’t feel that way. They had all just been rubbed the wrong way by some one else—and you were an unresisting object to fire away at in their turn. And don’t you suppose some of the rest had just as horrid things said to them as you did? And they aren’t crying about it either. They are protected by being more egotistical and sure of themselves and they’re just thinking ‘how ignorant that critic of mine was,’ that’s all.”
“If you want me to,” said Lilian suddenly, “I’ll stay—for you.”
“Stay for the mother,” corrected Peggy, “and for your own satisfaction, too.”
“Very well, I will,” came the determined voice at last.
“Then good-night,” said Peggy, “and don’t you think about it again to-night—will you?”
“No,” said Lilian sturdily, “I’ll think only about to-morrow when maybe, if I come to see you, you’ll read me your poem in the Monthly.”
“Why, you dear,” said Peggy, and, since she was a very human little girl, she made her way back to her room in a state of pleasant warmth and contentment.
[CHAPTER VII—CINDERELLA]
As a college morning dries all tears and wipes out all resentments of the night before, the freshmen were only slightly haughty in their demeanor toward each other next day, and none of the upper classmen had reason to suspect that they had been going through a period of stress and disillusionment all by themselves.
Lilian came down to breakfast, ate hurriedly and scurried off to class, after casting one quick glance of adoration toward Peggy.