And through her shot the irrelevant thought: "Why does she call me Cousin Mary, all the time? I'm only four years older than she."
But, as the two girls thus gazed at each other, the interval in their ages seemed, indeed, indefinite and immense. Angela's eyes could afford that subtle expression of known womanly advantage. The light of afternoon, flowing freely over the park and into the long windows, fell full upon Mary Wing's delicate face. It was a face, to be just, not devoid of a feminine attractiveness at times. But now the bright day showed it colorless and tired; the marks of many "fights" lingered indefinably about the mouth; tiny crow's-feet netted the corners of the fine blue eyes. Yes, this school-teacher's first youth was gone. Full of strange isms, she had lost sight of the real things of life, and now her Woman's Opportunity had slipped away from her forever.
It may be that Mary Wing would have given something of her honors to be prettier than Angela just for that moment.
"I think it would be hard to name a finer ambition. To be a good wife to ..." And, breaking off, she added, with another smile, sudden and merry: "To Dan Jenney, didn't you tell me?"
Her young cousin lost her dreamy look rather abruptly.
"Why, no, Cousin Mary! Please don't say that! I only told you that—"
But Cousin Mary, having turned her eyes toward the window, interrupted the womanly talk with a smashing announcement.
"Here's Flora Trevenna coming in—good!" she said in her most matter-of-fact way. "Excuse me a minute, Angela,—I'm bell-hop, you know!"
Angela, who at least knew the ill-omened name, gave one startled gaze, and sprang up. The prospect of casually meeting Mr. Manford was forgotten in her sudden panic alarm.
"I must go!" she said, looking about her a little wildly. "I—should have gone some time ago—really! I just stopped in to—"