Netty rose ungraciously, and presented a frigid hand to Dora, casting a sharp, feminine eye over the newcomer’s black dress and hat, which signified that she, too, was in mourning. This Netty regarded as rather impertinent.
The girls had never been intimate friends, although they had seen a great deal of one another when Mrs. Swinton took Dora under her wing and introduced 161 her into society, which found Netty dull, and made much of Dora. This aroused a natural jealousy. The girls were opposite in temperament, and, in a way, rivals.
“Netty, is your mother really ill?” asked Dora, as she extended her hand, “or is she merely not receiving anyone?”
“Mother has a bad headache, and is lying down. She is naturally very upset.”
“Oh, Netty, it is terrible!” sobbed Dora, breaking down hopelessly. “It can’t be true—it can’t!”
“What can’t be true?” asked Netty, coldly.
“Poor dear Dick’s death. It will kill me.”
“I don’t think there is any doubt about it,” snapped Netty. “And I don’t see why you should feel it more than anybody else.”
“Netty, that is unkind of you—ungenerous. You know I loved Dick. He was mine—mine!”
“Forgive me, but was he not also Nellie Ocklebourne’s, and the dear friend of I don’t know how many others besides? But none of them have been here since they heard that he got into a scrape before he went away.”