To them, it was The Land of Afternoon.
And now, as she sat in her tiny drawing-room, denuded of its handsome what-not, and waiting for possible callers, Marjorie tried to stifle a sense of depression, a conviction that all was not right with the world.
She reproached herself for this attitude of mind, trying to remove the trouble without searching for its origin or cause. The house was very still. The children were outside, playing. Her thoughts were filled with Pinto Plains and longing for her friends there.
She could almost guess what they were doing, especially Genevieve Woodside, whose turn it would be, to-day, to entertain the Ladies’ Missionary Circle. A mist filled her eyes, and before she could control herself, she was sobbing.
“I’ve just got to put an end to this nonsense,” she scolded herself. “They’d be ashamed of me, at home. I’m ashamed of myself, big baby! Whatever would Raymond say? I really am very happy. This is a nice little house, and the people are kind! A person couldn’t expect to feel perfectly at home, even in Pinto Plains, all at once. They simply couldn’t—and to think we are really living in Ottawa! Why, it’s too wonderful to be true!”
The door-bell rang.
With a nervous glance at the tea table, covered with the handsome white cloth embroidered in pink roses and edged with home-made lace that had been such a work of love for her trousseau, Marjorie went into the tiny hall and opened the door.
“Is Mrs. Dilling at home?” asked a frail, little person, in purple velvet and ermine.
“I’m Mrs. Dilling, and I’m ever so glad to see you. Won’t you come in, please?”
“Lady Denby,” murmured the other, stepping daintily past her.