“Is Miss St. Just very sorry?”
“She is rather; but by the way, Molly, you might help me; Miss St. Just is spending the night here.”
“Good gracious!” said Ethel, drawing herself up. “Yes; won’t you two go down and have a chat with her? I wish you would. She is going to see mother presently. I think she will do mother a lot of good. Anyhow, she is staying, and I must make up my mind what is to be done about Nesta. If there are no tidings of her within the next hour or so, I must send a telegram to father.”
“We must make ourselves smart, first,” said Ethel, turning to Molly.
“I suppose so,” answered Molly.
They both went into their bedroom, the nice room which Marcia had prepared for them, and considered.
“My white dress,” said Molly—“oh, but there’s that horrid stain on it. I got it yesterday.”
“Our pink muslins are quite fresh; we look very nice in pink, and two dressed alike have always a good effect,” was Ethel’s suggestion.
Accordingly the pink muslins were donned, the raffled but pretty hair was put into immaculate order, and the girls, their hearts beating a little, went downstairs to entertain their distinguished guest. Of course, she was distinguished. But she was going to stay in their house—she was to be with them for a whole long, beautiful night. How lovely! They could look at her and study her, and furtively copy her little ways, her little graciousnesses, her easy manners, her politeness, which never descended to familiarity, and yet put people immediately at their ease. And better still, they could talk to their friends about her and about what had occurred. When those upstart, disagreeable Carters came back, what a crow they would have over them.
They were both in good spirits and forgot Nesta. Nesta was nothing but a trouble-the-house. She would turn up when she pleased. She deserved a sound whipping, and an early putting to bed; that was what she deserved.