“What a morning it has been!” murmured Dorothy, as she strolled down to the tennis court with Margaret for a little practice at the nets before the serious work of the tournament should begin.
“Yes.” Margaret spoke emphatically. She paused, and then said rather shyly, “I should not have been very happy about it all, though, if it had not been for the talk I had with you last night. Oh! I was worried about that rumour of your depending on helps that are not right for your work. I think I should have fainted, when you made your affirmation, if I had known that there was anything not right about it.”
“I do not expect you would have swooned, however badly you might have felt.” Dorothy’s tone was rather grim as she spoke, for she was thinking of Rhoda. “It is astonishing what we can bear when hard things really come upon us.”
“Perhaps so. Anyhow, I am very glad it was all right,” Margaret sighed happily, and slid her arm in Dorothy’s. “I even had a big struggle with myself when Rhoda Fleming stood up to affirm, and I forgave her again from the bottom of my heart for every snub she has ever handed out to me, for it seemed as if it would make her record sweeter if I did that.”
“I wish I were as good as you.” Dorothy’s tone was a little conscience stricken. There had been no desire in her heart to have Rhoda clean enough to affirm; she had been merely conscious of a great amazement at the girl’s audacity and callousness.
“Oh, rot, I am not good!” jerked out Margaret brusquely; and then, Sixth Form girl though she was, she challenged Dorothy to race to the nets.
It was a neck-and-neck struggle, and the victor was nearly squashed at the goal by the vanquished falling on to her, and they helped each other up, laughing at the figures they must have cut, and the loss of hard-won dignity involved.
It was Dorothy who won, but that was only because she had a longer stride. She knew this right well, and Margaret knew it too.