The fern-house seemed to be deserted. Helen opened the door first, and ran forward. Prissie followed. The fern-house was not large; they had almost reached the end when a girl stood up suddenly, and confronted them. The girl was Maggie Oliphant. She was sitting there alone. Her face was absolutely colourless, and tears were lying wet on her eyelashes.
Maggie made a swift remark, a passing jest, and hurried past the two into the outer conservatory.
Priscilla could scarcely tell why, but at that moment she lost all interest in both ferns and flowers. The look of misery on Maggie’s face seemed to strike her own heart like a chill.
“You look tired,” said Helen Marshall, who had not noticed Maggie’s tearful eyes.
“Perhaps I am,” answered Prissie.
They went back again into the drawing-room. Prissie still could see nothing but Miss Oliphant’s eyes, and the look of distress on her pale face.
Helen suddenly made a remark.
“Was there ever such a merry creature as Maggie?” she said. “Do look at her now.”
Prissie raised her eyes. Miss Oliphant was the centre of a gay group, among whom Geoffrey Hammond stood. Her laugh rang out clear and joyous; her smile was like sunshine, her cheeks had roses in them, and her eyes were as bright as stars.