“I laughed to see you dancing with that little Olive Rothesay, Miss Derwent. For my part, I hate dancing with girls—and as for her—But I suppose you wanted to show the contrast.”
“Nay, that's ill-natured,” answered Sara, “She is a sweet little creature, and my very particular friend.”
Here Olive, blushing and happy, doubted whether she ought not to come out of the curtains. It was almost wrong to listen—only her beloved Sara often said she had no secrets from Olive.
“Yes, I know she is your friend, and Mr. Charles Geddes' great friend too; if I were you, I should be almost jealous.”
“Jealous of Olive—how very comical!” and the silver laugh was a little scornful. “To think of Olive's stealing any girl's lover! She, who will probably never have one in all her life—poor thing!”
“Of course not; nobody would fall in love with her! But there is a waltz, I must run away. Will you come?”
“Presently—when I have looked in the other room for Olive?”
“Olive is here,” said a timid voice. “Oh, Sara, forgive me if I have done wrong; but I can't keep anything from you. It would grieve me to think I heard what you were saying, and never told you of it.”
Sara appeared confused, and with a quick impulse kissed and fondled her little friend: “You are not vexed, or pained, Olive?”
“Oh, no—that is, not much; it would be very silly if I were. But,” she added, doubtfully, “I wish you would tell me one thing, Sara—not that I am proud, or vain; but still I should like to know. Why did you and Jane Ormond say just now that nobody would ever love me?”