“Yes,” she said, steadily, “I am Margery Daw. Do you wish——”
“First, let me express my sympathy for you in your loss,” commenced Vane, modulating her voice to soft accents. She saw at once that Margery regarded her as an enemy; but she did not intend to allow that thought to become rooted. She must clothe her darts with kindness, and with her sweetest words thrust her dagger into this girl’s heart. “None can know but those who have suffered what your grief must be,” she finished, gently.
Margery’s head drooped. Had sorrow already destroyed all her good impulses? She was prepared for war, and she met with sympathy, almost tenderness!
“You are very good,” she faltered.
Vane advanced into the room and pulled forward a chair.
“May I sit with you for a while?” she asked. “It is not good for you to be alone like this.”
“I like it,” answered Margery, turning her lustrous eyes upon her guest; and as Vane saw their beauty, her brows contracted, and she realized that her first judgment regarding this girl had been right, after all.
Her mood changed. When she had considered Margery plain, a half-contemptuous thought had passed through her mind to wound yet retain her sweetness. Now, she felt she cared not how hard she struck to relieve the jealousy and dislike that rankled in her bosom.
She leaned back languidly in her chair; and somehow the thought struck Margery that she had never seen the little room look so small and shabby before. The delicate gleam of Vane’s white garments contrasted strongly with her own dingy, dust-stained black dress; the placid beauty of Miss Charteris’ face brought back the thrill of pain to her heart. How different they were! Who was she, to compete with such a woman? She roused herself from her thoughts as she met Vane’s cold, clear eyes watching her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, quickly, yet with unspeakable grace. “You have had a long drive; may I give you a cup of tea—or perhaps you would prefer some milk?”