Her vigil was destined to be tedious, unbroken by the sight of anyone save the maid, who passed through the hall once or twice on her way to answer the bell. Even she did not trouble herself to glance through the half-parted brocade portieres at the lonely little figure in the room beyond. Consulting her wrist watch, Marjorie read five o’clock. She had been waiting for over an hour. She guessed that the girl on whom she had come to call must be with Mignon La Salle. There was at least a grain of comfort for her in this conjecture. If Mignon were at home now, there was small chance that she would be present at the interview.
An impatient hand on the bell sent a shrill, reverberating peal through the great house. An instant and she heard the maid’s voice, carefully lowered. There came the sound of quick, questioning tones, which she recognized. Rowena had at last put in an appearance. Immediately there followed a flinging back of the concealing portieres and the girl who had sprung into Marjorie’s knowledge so unbecomingly that morning walked into the room.
“You wished to see——Oh, it’s you!” The tall girl’s black eyes swept her uninvited guest with an expression far from cordial.
“Yes, it is I,” Marjorie’s inflection was faintly satirical. “I made a mistake about you this morning. I thought you were Miss Archer’s new secretary.” She lost no time in going directly to the point.
For answer Rowena threw back her auburn head and laughed loudly. “I fooled you nicely, didn’t I?” According to outward signs her conscience was apparently untroubled.
“Yes,” returned Marjorie quietly. “Why did you do it?”
Rowena’s laughing lips instantly took on a belligerent curve. The very evenness of the inquiry warned her that trouble was brewing for her. “See here,” she began rudely, “what did you come to my house for? I’m not pleased to see you. Judging from several things I’ve heard, I don’t care to know you.”
Marjorie paled at the rebuff. She had half expected it, yet now that it had come she did not relish it. At first meeting she had been irritated by the other girl’s almost rude indifference. Now she had dropped all semblance of courtesy.
“I hardly think it matters about your knowing or not knowing me,” she retorted in the same carefully schooled tone. “You, of course, are the one to decide that. What does matter is this—I must ask you to tell me exactly why you wished me to work out that quadratic problem for you. It is quite necessary that I should know.”
“Why is it so necessary?”