“What on earth has he got to be sorry about?” she inquired, wrathfully. “We are all well and hearty, and we are not turned out into the street yet, whatever may come!”
Winnie sighed and brushed out her veil of soft hair.
“Well, of course, things are changed, and it’s no use denying that, and we must expect people to pity us.”
“I don’t expect anything of the sort. I consider pity a most impertinent thing.”
“Naturally, to a man like Hubert,” Winnie went on, as she drew her hair well over her face, “there must be something awfully painful about us now. I saw him looking at you to-night, Polly, when we came down to dinner. It was a pity he had to see so plainly that you had just come up from the kitchen.”
“I couldn’t help that,” said Polly, sharply. “I had to cook the omelet, and I couldn’t cook it in my best frock.”
“Of course Hubert is not like most people,” Winnie said, softly; “otherwise he might have thought it was all for effect, you know.”
Polly flushed as red as her little jacket, but she remained silent, for she did not know exactly what to say, and Winnie, brushing back her hair, glanced at her furtively and rejoiced.
“All the same, I hope you are not going to quarrel with Hubert?” she said.
“Why not?”