In the first place she did not quite want to desert Lorraine so completely; and second, she was not yet sure that she wanted to proclaim herself one of the Gigs. Still less did she want to be a Prig, and she well knew she could never by the widest stretch of imagination be called a Dig, so she concluded not to ally herself definitely with either of these mystic orders until she had opportunity for further consideration.
So she firmly but good-naturedly declined to change her table for the present, and took her usual place by the side of Lorraine.
“Well,” said Lorraine, pettishly, “you seem to have made a great many new friends.”
“Yes,” said Patty, determined to be pleasant, “I have. I’m getting better acquainted with the girls, and I think they’re a very nice lot. You can’t judge much the first few days, you know. Clementine is a dear, isn’t she?”
“I don’t see anything dear about her. I think she’s silly and stuck-up.”
“Why, Lorraine, how absurd! Clementine isn’t stuck-up at all.”
“Well, I think she is, and, anyway, I don’t like her.” After which gracious speech Lorraine devoted herself to eating her luncheon, and was so unresponsive to further attempts at conversation that Patty gave it up, and turned to talk to the girl on the other side of her.
This was Hilda Henderson, an English girl, who had lived in America only about two years. She was slender, yet with a suggestion of hardy strength in her small bones and active muscles. She had a quick nervous manner, and her head, which was daintily set on her shoulders, moved with the alert motions of a bird. Not exactly pretty, but with dark straight hair and dark eyes, she looked like a girl of fine traits and strong character.
Patty had liked the appearance of this girl from the first, but had not seemed to be able to make friends with her.
But fortified by the new conditions which were developing, she made overtures with a little more confidence.