"Why shouldn't we make up for lost time at once—this morning, for instance? Shall I come by for you at eleven o'clock? Very well."
Joan hung up the telephone, mortified by her own pusillanimous behavior. Here was a golden opportunity to snub the girl who had found her "mixed," and instead of doing so she had meekly consented to be patronized. But at the word her head went up with something of the Major's dignity. Miss Carmichael would find it rather difficult to patronize Miss Darcy!
Miss Carmichael, however, seemed to have no intention of trying. She exclaimed with delight over the pretty Peggy, sleek as satin despite her winter coat, and dancing with pleasure to be out once more in equine society. (With the first approach of winter, the class in equestrianism had disbanded).
"Mr. Blair was telling me the other day about your father's wonderful Christmas present to you," she said. "It must be pleasant to be able to afford a real saddle-horse! My good old Dobbin has to pull Mother's station-wagon, too, you know, which is bad for his gaits. It's horrid to have only one horse in the stables!"
"You speak as if you were poverty-stricken," smiled Joan, thinking of the great Carmichael house, with its walled court and double galleries and outbuildings sufficient to house a retinue of servants.
"Oh, we are," sighed the other. "Absolutely! Why, do you know, I've never been to Europe in my life?"
Joan wondered what this girl would think of real poverty, which yearned in terms, not of trips to Europe, but of new shoes and unattainable spring bonnets!—And then she happened to notice, standing at the curb as they passed, a girl of about her age with a shawl over her head, a baby on one arm and a child dragging at the other, gazing listlessly at the fortunate ones who had time to be young.
Joan hastily abandoned comparisons.
"If you've only one horse, what does your groom ride?" she asked, having been rather impressed by the mention of a groom.
"A bicycle," smiled Emily. "Of course he's not a real groom, only our houseboy, Joe. It's terribly mortifying to his pride. 'Miss Em'ly, s'posin' we was to meet some one what knows us?' is his constant plea; so I ride in out-of-the-way roads to spare his feelings. If we do meet acquaintances, he drops far behind and pretends he isn't with me. When old Dob feels his oats, poor Joe has a fearful time keeping up. I hear him panting and gasping behind me, 'Woa thar, woa thar, Dobbin! Gawd sakes, Miss Em'ly, don' you know a bicycle wa'n't never meant to gallop?'"