“I’ve brought back your books,” she explained, and proffered the package.
Phœbe stared. “My books?”
“From Miss Simpson’s.” Genevieve laid them on the sitting-room table and sat, arranging her skirt grandly.
Phœbe still stared. It was as if she had unexpectedly been struck. Of course, if she was not to continue at the school—— And yet to have her books sent after her——!
“When my motor called for me,” went on Genevieve, “I had my chauffeur put them in the car,”—this with a graceful wave of the hand toward the package. “‘It’s no trouble,’ I said to Miss Simpson, ‘as long as I have my own motor, and my chauffeur.’ And Miss Simpson said, ‘Thank you, my dear. Then Phœbe won’t have to come back’.”
Phœbe’s slender body stiffened. “She said I won’t have to?” she demanded. “You mean my Uncle Bob said it.” Then as Genevieve’s brows and shoulders lifted simultaneously, “Oh, Genevieve, all the girls have acted so funny. What’s the matter? Do you know?”
Genevieve smoothed the crisp folds of her taffeta dress. “I’d rather not say,” she declared, importantly evasive.
But Phœbe was not to be put off. “Oh, please, Genevieve!” she entreated. “Tell me! Have I done anything?”
“N-n-n-no.” Then, raising her eyes to Phœbe’s anxious face, “You—you haven’t heard anything?”
Phœbe shook her head. “Is it because we haven’t got an automobile?” she ventured; “only a horse and a surrey?”