"And I can't help thinking what a lucky person Grace Harlowe is to have Emma Dean."
"Then we're a mutual admiration society," finished Emma, "and there's no telling where we'll leave off."
"If I didn't have to go on to Overton Hall I wouldn't wear a hat," sighed Grace, half an hour later, reaching reluctantly for her hat. She and Emma had bathed their faces, rearranged their hair, and put on fresh lingerie blouses with their tailored suits. "Are you ready, Emma? I wonder if Miss Reynolds is. I'll stop and see."
Grace knocked lightly on the newcomer's door. It was opened immediately.
"Are you ready, Miss Reynolds?" she asked, her alert eyes noting that the offending peplum had been tucked inside the black skirt, and that Mary Reynolds with her hat off was a vast improvement on Mary Reynolds with her hat on. She also observed that the girl's hair, though drawn uncompromisingly back from her forehead, showed a decided tendency to curl. With her usual impulsiveness she exclaimed, "Oh, you have naturally curly hair, haven't you? It's such a pretty shade of brown. Do let me do it for you. It's a pity not to make the most of it."
The girl regarded her with grave surprise. "Are you making fun of me?" she asked seriously.
"'Making fun of you,'" repeated Grace. "I should say not. I think you have beautiful hair. Why, what is it, Miss Reynolds?" For, with a queer, choking cry, the odd little stranger threw herself face downward on the bed and sobbed disconsolately.
Grace stood silent, watching the sob-wracked figure with puzzled, sympathetic eyes. Emma appeared in the doorway, her eyebrows elevated in astonishment. Grace motioned for her to come in. The girl on the bed wept on, while the two young women waited patiently for her sobs to cease.
Suddenly she sat up with a jerk, and dashed her hand across her eyes. "I'm sorry—I—was so—so—silly," she faltered, "but I couldn't help it. No one ever told me that I was anything but plain and ugly before."
"You poor little thing," sympathized Emma.