A tear splashed down upon her cheek, and Peggy, surprised and touched, leaned forward to pat the heaving shoulder consolingly. “Never mind, dear. We won’t say another word about it.”
“Just one more,” pleaded Priscilla. “You know, Peggy, that even when I’m hateful, I love you better than anybody in the world except my father and mother. But if you weren’t the dearest girl on earth–”
The screen door flew open, and slammed shut with an explosive effect which might have startled listeners unused to such phenomena. But in a cottage filled with young folks, doors are so likely to slam that this miniature thunder-clap did not cause either head to turn. It was rather the singular silence following which led Peggy to lift her eyes, and it was the expression on Peggy’s face which brought Priscilla to the realization that something out of the ordinary was taking place.
Claire stood by the screen door, her hands clenched, her face scarlet, her whole demeanor indicating the intensity of her struggle for self-control. Priscilla looked at her aghast, all sorts of alarming speculations racing through her mind. “Oh, what is the matter?” she cried.
“I heard every word.”
“You heard–” Priscilla broke off, and turned on Peggy a blank face. “Do you know what she means? What has she heard?”
“Oh, you needn’t try to get out of it,” Claire’s voice was suddenly shrill and rasping. “So Miss Peggy Raymond is the dearest girl on earth, is she, and you love her better than anybody in the world! It won’t do any good for you to deny it.”
“I haven’t any intention of denying it,” Priscilla replied, choosing her words with care. Instantly she knew that this meant the end of the friendship, which had by degrees become a burden rather than a joy. Claire’s exactions, her extravagant protests of an affection which in its expression proved itself to be nothing but self-love, had been the one discordant note in the summer’s harmony. To have the unreal bond dissolved, even in so drastic a fashion, came as a relief. “I haven’t any wish to deny it,” Priscilla repeated, as Claire gasped hysterically. “Everybody who knows me knows that Peggy’s my best friend.”
“And what about me?” The tragic tone of Claire’s inquiry threw its absurdity into temporary eclipse. “I’m nobody, I suppose. I can just be set aside when it suits your pleasure. And you called yourself my friend.”
“Why, Claire,” Peggy began, throwing herself into the breach with her usual irresistible impulse toward peacemaking, but, to the angry girl, this well-meant interference was additional provocation. “Oh, don’t you say anything,” she cried, turning savagely on the would-be pacificator. “You ought to be satisfied. It’s all your fault.”