“Miss Greggory!” she exclaimed, when she reached the girl. “You look actually ill. Are you ill?”
For a brief second only dazed questioning stared from the girl's blue-gray eyes. Billy knew when the recognition came, for she saw the painful color stain the white face red.
“Thank you, no. I am not ill, Miss Neilson,” said the girl, coldly.
“But you look so tired out!”
“I have been standing here some time; that is all.”
Billy threw a hurried glance down the far-reaching line that she knew had formed since the girl's two tired feet had taken their first position.
“But you must have come—so early! It isn't twelve o'clock yet,” she faltered.
A slight smile curved Alice Greggory's lips.
“Yes, it was early,” she rejoined a little bitterly; “but it had to be, you know. I wanted to hear the music; and with this soloist, and this weather, I knew that many others—would want to hear the music, too.”
“But you look so white! How much longer—when will they let you in?” demanded Billy, raising indignant eyes to the huge, gray-pillared building before her, much as if she would pull down the walls if she could, and make way for this tired girl at her side.