Marjorie stared thoughtfully into the earnest face of the girl at her side. What should she say? If she told Constance that Mary had twice asked questions regarding her affairs, Constance might think Mary unduly curious. Perhaps, after all, silence was wisest. Mary might forget all about it, and, in any case, she was far too sensible to feel hurt or indignant because she, Marjorie, was not free to tell her of the private affairs of another.
"Promise me, Marjorie, that you won't say anything," urged Constance. Her natural reticence made her dread taking even Mary into confidence regarding herself.
"I promise, Connie," said Marjorie with a half sigh. "There, I guess that flounce will stay in place. I've sewed it over and over."
The two girls returned to the dance floor arm in arm. Mary Raymond's blue eyes were turned on them resentfully as they entered the room. They had been having a talk together, and hadn't asked her to join them. Then her face cleared. She thought she knew what that talk was about. Marjorie had been asking Constance's permission to tell her everything. She would hear the great secret on the way home, no doubt. Her spirits rose at the prospect of the comfy chat they would have in the automobile and for the rest of the evening she put aside all doubts and fears, and danced as only sweet and seventeen can.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LATEST SOPHOMORE ARRIVAL
Though the evening of the dance had been deceitfully clear and balmy, dark clouds banked the autumn sky before morning and the day broke in a downpour of rain. It was a doubly dreary morning to poor little Mary Raymond and over and over again Longfellow's plaintive lines,
"Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary,"
repeated themselves in her brain. Yes, rain had indeed fallen into her life. The bitter rain of false friendship. All the days must from now on be dark and dreary. Last night she had danced the hours away, secure in the thought that Marjorie would not fail her. And Marjorie had spoken no word of explanation. During the drive home she had talked gaily of the dance and of the boys and girls who had attended it. She had related bright bits of freshman history concerning them, but on the subject of Constance Stevens and her affairs she had been mute. Mary fancied she had purposely avoided the subject. In this respect she was quite correct. Marjorie, still a little disturbed over her promise to Constance, had tried to direct Mary's mind to other matters. Deeply hurt, rather than jealous, Mary had listened to Marjorie in silence. She managed to make a few comments on the dance, and pleading that she was too sleepy for a night-owl talk, had kissed Marjorie good night rather coldly and hurried to her room. Stopping only to lock the door, she had thrown herself on her bed in her pretty evening frock and given vent to long, tearless sobs that left her wide awake and mourning, far into the night. It was, therefore, not strange that lack of sleep, coupled with her supposed dire wrongs, had caused her to awaken that morning in a mood quite suited to the gloom of the day.