“Only sick at heart.”
Marjorie dropped into a chair before the open fire, and, withdrawing her gloves, spread her hands gratefully toward the warmth. “My hike with the new troop was a dismal failure.”
“Tell me about it!” urged Mrs. Hadley sympathetically.
In a few words the disheartened captain told her story, without interruption. Her hostess made no comment until they had answered the summons to dinner.
“Do have some hot coffee, dear,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”
“Thank, you, yes.”
She stirred it moodily, silently. Again Mrs. Hadley did not interrupt.
“Now tell me what you would advise me to do,” Marjorie finally asked.
“Give them up, of course!” replied the other, emphatically. “They are not worth your effort, your unhappiness. The trouble lies too deep for you to reach, Marjorie. Their families, the free lawless spirit of the age in which we live, are to blame. They are young in years, but they are old in experience—much older than you. If you could take them away from their homes, their pleasures, their environments, your personality might conquer theirs. But at the most they see you only three or four hours a week; and what mark can you hope to leave in so short a time? There are too many things against you.”
“I guess you are right, Mrs. Hadley,” admitted the girl, wearily. “But it seems dreadful to give them up—to accept defeat so soon. I like to win if the cause is worth it, no matter what the odds are against me.”