Peggy's wits were in working order again. "Dick Raymond, you don't mean that you've almost scared me to death because you invited two boys to supper!" And then, reading in his face that she had hit the mark, Peggy's overtaxed nerves played her false, and she sat down promptly on the floor, where she laughed and cried together.
Poor Dick, at his wit's end, tried vainly to allay the storm. "See here, Peggy. You don't need to have 'em if you don't want 'em." That was when her sobs were most violent. Then with sudden indignation: "I'd like to know what you're laughing at anyway, Peg Raymond. I don't see anything funny."
The laughter had the better of the tears at last and Peggy wiped her eyes, took a long breath, and climbed unsteadily to her feet.
"Dick."
"What?"
"The next time you have any bad news to tell, don't try to break it gently. Just blurt it out, no matter what happens. I think that's safer, on the whole." Peggy moved languidly to the sink, where she removed the encircling towel and proceeded to bathe her eyes. "Dick."
"What d'ye want?" The conscience-stricken Dick was on his feet instantly, ready to fly in any direction at a word.
"You needn't tell the boys not to come. If one of the girls will come over and help me, I guess we can fix up some sort of supper. You run and ask Elaine."
But when Dick appeared fifteen minutes later he was accompanied by Priscilla instead of Peggy's next-door neighbor. "Elaine couldn't come," explained Dick. "She's sick, too. Her mother said she couldn't lift her head from the pillow."
It was Priscilla's first intimation that she had been second choice, and, to a girl of her temperament, the news was disquieting. "I'm sorry you couldn't have the one you wanted, Peggy," she said, with dangerous sweetness. "But I'll do my best to take her place." Then catching sight of poor Peggy's swollen eyes and drooping figure, she had the grace to be ashamed of herself.