"It must be lovely to live in the country," Shirley said, dropping down on the grass before the doctor's favorite La France, and laying her face against the soft, pink petals of a half-blown bud.
Edna eyed her curiously. She had rather resented the admittance of this city girl into their set. Shirley's skirt and blouse were of white linen, there was a knot of red under the broad sailor collar, she was hatless and the dark hair,—never kept too closely within bounds—was tossed and blown; there was certainly nothing especially cityfied in either appearance or manner.
"That's the way I feel about the city," Edna said slowly, "it must be lovely to live there."
Shirley laughed. "It is. I reckon just being alive anywhere such days as these ought to content one. You haven't been over to the manor lately, have you? I mean since we came there. We're really getting the garden to look like a garden. Reclaiming the wilderness, father calls it. You'll come over now, won't you—the club, I mean?"
"Why, of course," Edna answered, she thought she would like to go. "I suppose you've been over to the forts?"
"Lots of times—father's ever so interested in them, and it's just a pleasant row across, after supper."
"I have fasted too long, I must eat again," Tom remarked, coming across the lawn. "Miss Dayre, may I have the honor?"
"Are you conductor, or merely club president now?" Shirley asked.
"Oh, I've dropped into private life again. There comes Hilary—doesn't look much like an invalid, does she?"
"But she didn't look very well the first time I saw her," Shirley answered.