“Why have you come to see me?” demanded Lucy, hostile and inhospitable. All the time her lambent green eyes remained fixed upon Marjorie.
“Why shouldn’t I come to see you?” Marjorie gave a nervous little laugh. Privately she wished she had not come. Embarrassment at the unfriendly reception drove the question of the letter from her mind.
“You never noticed me in school,” pursued Lucy relentlessly. “Why should you now?”
“You would never let me be friends with you,” was Marjorie’s honest retort. “I’ve tried ever so many times. I have always admired you. You are so bright and make such brilliant recitations.”
“What does that matter when one is poor and always out of things?” came the bitter question.
“Oh, being poor doesn’t count. It’s the real you that makes the difference. When I was a little girl we were quite poor. We aren’t rich now; just in comfortable circumstances. If I chose my friends for their money I’d be a very contemptible person. You mustn’t look at matters in that light. It’s wrong. It shuts you away from all the best things in life; like love and friendship and contentment. I wish you had said this to me long ago. Then we would have understood each other and been friends.”
“I can never be your friend,” stated the girl solemnly.
“Why not?” Marjorie’s eyes widened. “Perhaps I ought not to ask you that. It sounded conceited. I can’t blame you if you don’t like me. There are many persons I can’t like, either. Sometimes I try to like them, but I seldom succeed,” she made frank admission.
“You are a puzzling girl,” asserted Lucy, her green eyes wavering under Marjorie’s sweetly naïve confession. “Either you are very deceitful, or else I have made a terrible mistake.” She suddenly lay back in bed, half hiding her brown head in the pillow.
“I would rather think that you had made a mistake.” The rose in Marjorie’s cheeks deepened. “I try never to be deceitful.”