"It's too bad of Grandmother Newbury," declared Frances angrily.
"Oh, Fran, she didn't know about the picnic," said Cecilia—but still without turning round.
"Well, she needn't always be so annoyed if we don't go when we are invited. Another day would do just as well," said Frances shortly. Something in her voice sounded choked too. She rose and walked to the other end of the verandah, where she stood and scowled down the road; Ralph and Elliott, feeling uncomfortable, went away.
The verandah was very still for a little while. The sun had quite set, and it was growing dark when Frances came back to the steps.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" she said shortly. "Which of us is to go to the Bay Shore?"
"I suppose I had better go," said Cecilia slowly—very slowly indeed.
Frances kicked her slippered toe against the fern jardinière.
"You may see Nan Harris somewhere else before she goes back," she said consolingly.
"Yes, I may," said Cecilia. She knew quite well that she would not. Nan would return to Campden on the special train, and she was going back west in three days.
It was hard to give the picnic up, but Cecilia was used to giving things up. Nobody ever expected Frances to give things up; she was so brilliant and popular that the good things of life came her way naturally. It never seemed to matter so much about quiet Cecilia.