“It does seem,” Viola went on, after she had wiped her pen on her stocking, and then said something vigorous because she had forgotten that she wore a brown pair, “it does seem as if Father might try to do better. It makes it very hard for a girl of my type. . . . It doesn’t agree with me to accommodate to poverty, or to pinch and scrape as I have to all the time!”
That was nonsense, but I didn’t say so, because with Leslie and Viola my opinion about money and things didn’t count.
So I only stood there a minute, feeling a little sorry for Viola and very sorry for her father, and wondering why people felt so about that which Viola called “Appearance,” and then I decided I’d go to my room and finish a letter I’d started to Mother, who would, Miss Sheila had stated, write me herself, very soon.
“Where are you going?” asked Viola after I had said I must hurry on.
“My room,” I answered, as I turned the door knob.
“How’d your lesson go?”
“Pretty well.”
“If Miss Parrish doesn’t join you, I will later.”
“All right,” I responded, “but I won’t have a fire—”
“I should think you’d die without one,” said Viola, pityingly.