Gretta gazed up without speaking, only half understanding the importance of her aunt’s words.
“It’s like this, darling. Uncle Bob and I are going back to Australia by the next boat; we start early in the week. We mean to leave Margot here, for we can afford that; also, Uncle Bob says that he wants either you or Sybil to stay, but to keep you both here after the end of this term is not possible. I went to see your father on Friday, and yesterday—before there was the sudden excitement of Sybil’s absence—I spoke to Miss Slater.”
“Then——?” It seemed to Gretta as though in one moment all her castles of happiness were tottering; school-life in future was to be either for her or for Sybil; school-life to which she had so much looked forward, and which had surpassed her wildest dreams; which had brought her the longed-for music lessons, and the friends that had meant so much to her. She gazed at her aunt in a bewildered, terrified way. “Oh, auntie!” she said in a whisper. “Which of us is it to be?”
“Gretta,” said Mrs. Fleming. “Look at me. Does it mean so very much to you?”
A flood of ideas seemed literally to rush into Gretta’s mind; she thought of home as it had been, dull and lonely; she thought of school as it was; could she bear to leave it after such a short, short taste of all the joys it held? She turned her eyes appealingly towards her aunt, and tried to speak.
“Gretta,” said Mrs. Fleming again. “If I could have managed it, both of you should have stayed; but it must be only one.”
And then, quite suddenly, Gretta realized that, as a Cliff School girl, she must play the game. Sybil must stay, of course; there was no other way; her choice was made. She held her head as straight as she could, and gave a crooked, but courageous, little smile. “It just has to be me,” she said. “And perhaps I’ll get music lessons again some day, and, anyhow, I know enough to practise better. Auntie, you’ve been most awfully kind, and you must have had a frightful time yourself!”
“Well, the worst’s over now,” said Mrs. Fleming bravely. “I dreaded telling you, dear, more than anything. We’ve given up the car. I hoped by telling Margot that in my letter, that the way might be paved to letting her know the rest.”
“Poor Margot!” said Gretta.
“Not ‘poor Margot’ at all,” said that girl’s mother cheerfully. “Her schooling’s assured, and it will do us all good to put our shoulders to the wheel again. It’s you, dear.”