But glad as Priscilla would have been to accept the comforting assurance she shook her head with decision. “It’s exactly the same thing,” she insisted. “But I really hope–Why, Peggy, what’s the matter?”
If Peggy’s convulsive movement had not been sufficient to account for the startled question, the expression of her face was abundant ground for the inquiry. “Why, Peggy,” Priscilla repeated in real consternation, “what is it? What has happened?”
“I never thought of it till this minute. She’s spoiled everything.”
“Who? Claire? What has she spoiled?”
“Our play,” groaned Peggy. “It comes off on Tuesday, and has been advertised in the last three issues of the Arena. We can’t possibly find anybody to take her place. What are we going to do?”
“Dorothea Clarke played it last June. Why not telegraph for her to come up. We just can’t have a fizzle at the last minute.”
“Why, Dolly Clarke is in California! Somebody spoke of it in a letter only last week.” Peggy groaned again. “I wonder if Claire didn’t think that her going would spoil everything. Or if she just didn’t care.”
Priscilla was inclined to favor the latter hypothesis, yet even in her resentment she realized that any amount of criticism of Claire would not save the situation. Vainly the girls grappled with the problem, to end by looking at each other despairingly.
When Elaine stepped off the train at eleven o’clock she was immediately conscious of missing something in her welcome. It was not that Peggy did not seem glad to see her, for the steadfast eyes that met her own were beaming with affection. Priscilla too was unusually cordial. And yet Elaine missed something, the spontaneous overflowing of light hearts.
“What is it?” she asked, looking from one to the other, as the stage driver went for her little trunk. “Is anybody ill? Is anything wrong? Somehow you look–”