Priscilla was treated very kindly by Maggie; she still helped her willingly with her Greek, and even invited her into her room once or twice. But all the little half-beginnings of confidence which, now and then, used to burst from Maggie’s lips, the allusions to old times, the sentences which revealed deep thoughts and high aspirations, all these, which made the essence of true friendship, vanished out of her conversation.
Priscilla said to herself over and over that there was really no difference—that Miss Oliphant was still as kind to her, as valued a friend as ever—but in her heart she knew that this was not the case.
Maggie startled all her friends by making one request. Might they postpone the acting of The Princess until the middle of the following term?
“I cannot do it justice now,” she said. “I cannot throw my heart and soul into my part. If you act the play now you must allow me to withdraw.”
The other girls, Constance Field in particular, were astonished. They even felt resentful. All arrangements had been made for this especial play. Maggie was to be the Princess herself; no one could possibly take her place. It was most unreasonable of her to withdraw now.
But it was one of the facts well-known at St. Benet’s that, fascinating as Miss Oliphant was, she was also unreasonable. On certain occasions she could even be disobliging. In short, when Maggie “took the bit between her teeth,” to employ an old metaphor, she could neither be led nor driven. After a great deal of heated discussion and indignant words, she had her will. The play was deferred till the following term, and one or two slight comedies, which had been acted before, were revived in a hurry to take its place.