“Thank you, but I don’t believe I’ll ride. I was out in the car all morning with General. It’s so lovely this afternoon I’d rather walk. I’m not bound for a tea, though. I am going to make a call.”
Mignon’s dark brows drew together in a faint frown. “Oh, pshaw!” she exclaimed. “Why not ride? Unless you don’t wish me to know where you are going?” she added suspiciously.
“I never thought of that,” was Marjorie’s honest protest. Yet now that Mignon had mentioned it, it struck Marjorie rather forcibly that she was not specially anxious to reveal her destination. “I am going to call on Miss Archer,” she informed her, making an effort to be casual.
“Then I’ll take you there. I should like to see her, too,” announced Mignon calmly. She had decided that to call on the principal in Marjorie’s company would be of great advantage to her. “Come on,” she urged.
Too well-bred to exhibit pointed reluctance, Marjorie resigned herself to the inevitable and stepped into the runabout. Her visit to Miss Archer was of a somewhat personal nature. Still, she reflected, it was nothing very secret, after all. Should her mission prove successful, Mignon would, under any circumstances, soon learn the result.
“How do you know Miss Archer will be at home?” inquired Mignon as she drove slowly down the shady avenue. “I thought she was still in the West.”
“She came home only yesterday. I telephoned her,” returned Marjorie. “This call of mine is really more like a business appointment. I would rather have waited until she had her house fairly opened again, but I couldn’t very well. It might be too late.”
“Oh!” Mignon was burning to demand further information, but the finality in Marjorie’s tones warned her to go slowly. Between herself and the latter there remained always a curious wall of reserve created by their mental attitude toward each other. Mignon did not believe that Marjorie’s friendliness toward herself was sincere. On the other hand, Marjorie sensed the note of unbelief. She felt that Mignon did not trust her and it made her uncomfortable when in the French girl’s presence.
It was a comparatively short ride to the spacious, old-fashioned house, set in the midst of giant elms, which the last three generations of Archers had called home. Of them all Miss Archer and an elder sister alone remained. The two women had arrived in Sanford from a visit to Western relatives on the previous day. Even in that short time the big house had taken on an air of new life. The shuttered windows and boarded-up doors were now open and a hospitable array of comfortable wicker and willow chairs on the wide veranda proclaimed that someone was at home.
“We’ll leave the runabout here,” decreed Mignon, as they brought up outside the tall iron gate. She alighted from it in her lithe, cat-like manner, her restless eyes fixed on the house. Quite forgetting that she was merely a second party to the call, Mignon motioned impatiently for Marjorie to follow and set off up the walk in her most imposing manner. Divided between amusement and vexation, Marjorie gave a little sigh and stepped quickly after the French girl.