She went out of church somewhat depressed, but was cheered by the handclasp of the rector and his earnest assurance that he would see her very soon. While he was saying this, Colette slipped past without vouchsafing so much as a glance in their direction. Hurt through and through, the little girl walked sadly to the pavement with head and eyes downcast.
"Amarilly," dulcetly spoke a well-loved voice.
Her eyes turned quickly. Colette stood at the curb, her hand on the door of the electric.
"I waited to take you home, dear. Why, what's the matter, Amarilly?
Tears?"
"I thought you wan't goin' to speak to me," said Amarilly, as she stepped into the brougham and took the seat beside Colette.
"I didn't want to interrupt you and Mr. Meredith, but it's a wonder I knew you. You look so different. You have grown so tall, and what a beautiful dress! Who showed you how to fix your hair so artistically? I never realized you had such beautiful hair, child!"
"I didn't nuther, till he told me."
"Who, Amarilly? Lord Algernon?"
"No!" scoffed Amarilly, suddenly realizing that her former hero had toppled from his pedestal in her thoughts. "'Tain't him. It's a new friend I have made. An artist."
"Oh, Amarilly, you have such distinguished acquaintances! All in the profession, too. Tell me who the artist is."