Dr. Dudley had been unexpectedly called out of town, so the three dined together most unconventionally. The ladies talked over old hospital days, and Polly, greatly to her relief, was left much to herself. But although she rarely joined in the converse, her thoughts were not allowed to revert to their unpleasant channel, with the result that when she returned to school things had regained a little of their accustomed brightness, and she was ready to smile a greeting to her friends.
But this happier mood vanished with the opening of the door into the school dressing-hall.
A group of girls were removing their wraps, among which was Ilga Barron. Two of them nodded carelessly to Polly, and then went on talking in low tones, with side glances towards the new-comer. Polly hurried off her coat and hat, but before they were on their hook Ilga broke out in a loud whisper, plainly intended to carry across the hall:—
“Dr. Dudley don’t know much anyway! He’s got a sister that’s an idiot—a real idiot! They have to keep her shut up!”
Even Ilga herself, turning to gloat over the effect of her words, was so startled that she led the way quickly upstairs to the school room, leaving Polly standing there alone, her horrified brown eyes staring out of a colorless face.
“What in the world’s the matter?” cried Glen Stewart, appearing in the outer doorway, at the head of a string of girls. “Are you sick?”
“No—yes—oh, I don’t know!” she stammered, catching her breath piteously.
They clustered around her, distressed and helpless.
“Are you faint? I’ll get you a drink!” And Lilith Brooks ran to fetch a glass.