"I'm sorry, Lily," said the junior mistress kindly. "It's a great pity you can't learn to hold yourself properly. Otherwise, you might act very well."
Lily's brief triumph was over, at the expense of this humiliation.
It was then that Sylvia Hardinge surprised her by saying quietly: "It's a shame! You said all that stuff perfectly splendidly—as though it really meant something. They ought to let you have a really good part—you act better than any of us."
Lily secretly agreed with her, whilst believing herself conceited for doing so, but she was none the less astonished and gratified at Sylvia's appreciation.
"I'm glad you think I can act. Did I really hold myself so very badly?"
"Yes," said Sylvia simply. "Frightfully."
It was like a douche of cold water.
Lily's friendship with Sylvia was destined to run a course that was neatly foreshadowed thus in their first encounter.
Sylvia admired Lily, thought her clever and very pretty, and was a sympathetic and affectionate companion.
Lily felt passionately grateful for her affection, and sometimes told herself joyfully that she had found a friend at last.