Gina, it was evident enough, had hitherto dominated the little group of girls, but her temporary infatuation for the society of Miss Marguerite Saxon had rather diminished her prestige, and Marguerite, moreover, had made herself popular with the millinery young ladies by talking agreeably to them at dinner-time, when they sat together at the second table. Consequently they championed her with vigour.
“It really is too bad, you know, dear. Marguerite is awfully sensitive—those blondes so often are, much more so than brunettes, I fancy—and of course she feels it all the more because they used to be such friends. That’s what hurts her so much.”
“Well, Gina is hurt about it, too—and has cause to be, in my opinion,” inexorably said the girl who did alterations.
The first and second tables were allowed to overlap during the slack season very often.
“How did it begin?” Lydia asked.
But to this there was no satisfactory reply.
How did the slackening of those romantic bonds first make itself felt?
“Marguerite couldn’t help noticing that Gina’s manner had altered, of course,” said someone vaguely.
From this painful illumination it appeared as though Miss Saxon and Miss Ryott had proceeded to revive their drooping interest in one another by a series of mutual provocations.
“Gina is awfully proud. You couldn’t expect her to take the first step. I mean, she’s so frightfully proud.”