Molly entered the room first; Ethel followed behind. Susan had lit a lamp, and the drawing room looked fairly comfortable. Angela was standing by the open window. She turned when she saw the girls and came forward to meet them.
“We’re so pleased and proud to know you,” began Molly.
“You are Molly, of course—or are you Molly?” said Angela, glancing from one girl to the other.
“We’re awfully alike, you know,” laughed Molly, “aren’t we, Ethel? Yes, I am Molly, and this is Ethel. We’re not twins, but there’s only about a year between us. We’re very glad to know you. Have you heard much about us?”
“Of course I have, from Marcia, my greatest friend.” Molly’s eyes were fixed in fascinated wonder and open admiration on her distinguished guest. There was something intangible about Angela, something quite impossible to define; she was made for adoration; she was made for a sort of worship. Girls could never feel about her in the ordinary way. These girls certainly did not. They looked at one another, and then looked back again at Angela.
“Are you tired? Are you really going to stay the night here?” said Molly at last.
“I will sit down if you don’t mind. No, I am not tired.”
“But you look so pale.”
“I am always pale; I never remember having a scrap of colour in my life.”
“I think pale people look so interesting,” said Ethel. “I wish Molly and I were pale; but we flush up so when we are excited. I know I shall have scarlet cheeks in a minute or two.”