"Mrs. Porter,"—the girl dropped her nonchalant attitude,—"I meant it when I asked you to forgive me. If I lost your friendship I should lose the greatest treasure I have left."
"You won't lose it, poor child," was the response, as the deep color faded from Mrs. Porter's face. "You strain it when you speak so of Bertram, but I have to remember exactly the truths I have been telling you."
"That I shall be punished?"
"Assuredly, dear child—just as far as you are wrong."
Linda leaned forward suddenly and laid an affectionate hand on the other's knee.
"But I'm right, dear," she said, her eyes bright.
Mrs. Porter patted the hand in silence and the bathroom door slowly opened.
Blanche Aurora, looking very young indeed, clad in white, with white arms and neck, and tanned face and hands, stood with the old plaid gingham over her arm. Her gaze fled to the bed, then returned to the rusty plaid. So might a butterfly regard the chrysalis from which it had just emerged.
"Do I put this on again?" she asked.
"No," returned Linda. "Fold it and put it on that chair over there."