“No, of course not. I shall miss you,” added Mirabelle, more in truth than in compliment. “When will you return?”
The girl made a little grimace.
“To-morrow.”
“You don’t want to come back, naturally? Have you succeeded in persuading your—your friend to let me out too?”
Joan shook her head.
“He’ll never do that, my dear, not till . . .” She looked at the girl. “You’re not engaged, are you?”
“I? No. Is that another story they’ve heard?” Mirabelle got up from the bed, laughing. “An heiress, and engaged?”
“No, they don’t say you were engaged.” Joan hastened to correct the wrong impression. There was genuine admiration in her voice, when she said: “You’re wonderful, kid! If I were in your shoes I’d be quaking. You’re just as cheerful as though you were going to the funeral of a rich aunt!”
She did not know how near to a breakdown her companion had been that day, and Mirabelle, who felt stronger and saner now, had no desire to tell her.
“You’re rather splendid.” Joan nodded. “I wish I had your pluck.”