Queenie threw her arms about Marjorie, overcome by her sense of gratitude.
“I don’t deserve that you should be so good to me, Cap! I don’t—really!”
“You certainly do! Nobody needs a holiday more than you. Just look how you sat up with me those nights after the night nurse was called away! I want you to go and have the best time ever!”
For the next half hour both girls thoroughly enjoyed themselves while Queenie tried on all of Marjorie’s street costumes. At last they both agreed upon a trim little dark blue serge, made with straight lines and a cunning taffeta toque to match.
“I’m going to pull the hat way down over my eyes,” she remarked, “and see if I can fool any of your friends, if I meet them. It would be such fun to have somebody rush up and kiss me, and call me ‘Marjorie.’”
“You flatter me, Queenie. You know I’m a lot older than you.”
“But you don’t look it!” flashed the other immediately.
She was not to leave for the city until the eleven o’clock train the following morning, so the girls had plenty of time for their hour together after breakfast. Queenie had a share in the excitement this time, for the florist’s messenger brought her a box of flowers in addition to Marjorie’s gifts.
“Violets!” she exclaimed, “from Mr. Richards. He wants me to wear them today.”
Marjorie looked on a trifle enviously; she was missing her violets more each day. For somehow, with her, violets were always associated with John Hadley.