“Will you be my friend, and shall I be your friend?”
“If you would,” said Prissie. “But you don’t mean it. It is impossible that you can mean it. I’m not a bit like you—and—and—you only say these things to be kind.”
“What do you mean, Priscilla?”
“I must tell you,” said Prissie, turning very pale. “I heard what you said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college.”
“What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?”
“Oh, can’t you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped—yes, I did stop to listen.”
“Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to punish you for listening.”
“I heard,” said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, “I heard you say that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you were good to me.”
Maggie felt her own colour rising.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It is very different now.”