Berta tucked a pensive skip in between steps as they moved through the gloomy corridor past rain-beaten windows. “It wasn’t like Gertrude to burst out like that just because Sara came late to our domestic evening, but it did spoil the fudges and the game and everything.”
“And not to give her a chance to explain!” fumed Bea’s temper always ready to flame over any injustice. “Before she could open her lips, Gertrude blazed up, cold as an icicle——”
“What?” interpolated demure Berta with her most deeply shocked accent, “an icicle blaze?”
“Oh, hush, you’re the most disagreeable person! I wish Lila hadn’t gone home. Well, she did just that. She said the artistic temperament was no excuse for discourteous falsehood—or she almost the same as said it—meaning breaking your word, you know, for Sara had promised she would come at eight, and there it was quarter to nine. She said that it might be wiser next time to invite somebody more reliable about keeping engagements. Sara did not answer a word—only went white as a sheet and walked out of the room. Now she even cuts us—because we were there—stares right over our heads when we meet her anywhere.”
“I’m sure Gertrude was sorry the minute she had spoken. And she’s been working awfully hard over committees and the maids’ classes and the last play. She was tired and nervous up to the brim, and then to wait and wait and wait for Sara. Why, I was getting cross myself.”
“Well, why doesn’t she beg Sara’s pardon then, and make it all right?” demanded the young judge severely. “Sara has always simply worshiped her, but because she never has made mistakes nor learned how to apologize, and everybody admires her and flatters her, she is too proud to say she was wrong. It’s plain vanity—that’s what it is. She can’t bear to make herself do it.”
“She’s unhappy,—that’s what I think, though she sort of pretends she doesn’t care.”
“She’s cross as a bear—that’s what I think,” snapped Bea, “and Sarah has dark circles under her eyes. It’s dreadful—those two girls who used to be inseparable! Quarrels are—are horrible!” The impetus of this conviction almost succeeded in hurling its proprietor against the water cooler at the bathroom door. “Say, Berta, what if you and I should quarrel, with Robbie Belle and Lila one thousand miles away?”
“I’m too amiable,” responded Berta complacently, “sugar is sweet——”
The tin cup dropped with a flurried rattle against the fudge pan. “Oh!” a shriek of dismay, “my dear young and giddy friend, we’re all out of sugar. What if we should want to make anything to-night? Let’s run back to the grocery by the kitchen this minute.”