Katharine followed her in, rather awkwardly, and sat down on the chair that was pointed out to her, and tried to think of something appropriate to say. It was difficult to know how to begin, when she looked round the room, and noted all the objects that seemed to have belonged to some distant period in her life, before the world had become so hard and cheerless. But Phyllis was looking the same as ever, except that she was rather white, and her hair was strangely tidy. She was the first to speak.
"Hullo," she said. "I've been wanting to see you. What's the matter with you, child?"
The incongruity of being asked by the invalid for the cause of her own malady did not immediately occur to Katharine. But the familiar tone of sympathy went straight to her heart, and she broke down completely. She had a dim notion that Polly remonstrated angrily, and that Polly was sent out of the room; and after that she was conscious of nothing except of the comfort of being able to cry undisturbed, until Phyllis said something about red eyes, and they joined in a spasmodic laugh.
"Poor old girl, what have they been doing to you?" she asked.
"Everything has been horrid," gasped Katharine. "And you were ill, and nobody understood, and oh, Phyllis!—I am a prig!"
CHAPTER XVI
Marion Keeley lay in an indolent attitude on the sofa by the window. Her mother was addressing circulars at the writing-table, with the anxious haste of the fashionable woman of business. Both of them looked as though the London season, which a royal wedding had prolonged this year, had been too much for them.
"He is coming again to-night," said Marion, throwing down a letter she had been reading. Her tone was one of dissatisfaction.
"I know," replied her mother. "I asked him to come."
Marion made a gesture of impatience.