“Perfect! No, child—Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection. Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No, we won’t talk of them; we’ll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good to-night—good—and glad: it’s such a nice feeling.”
“I am sure of it,” said Priscilla.
“What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait until you do. For instance—no, though—I won’t enlighten you. Prissie, what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?”
“I think he loves you, very much.”
“Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite dark in your mind—in fact, you are to put it out of your mind. You are not to associate my name with Mr Hammond’s—not even in your thoughts. You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks. But there will be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me, nor I to him.”
“Then why did you blow a kiss after him?” asked Priscilla.
Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.
“Oh, my many-sided nature!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It was a wicked sprite made me blow that kiss. Prissie, my dear, I am cold: race me to the house.”
The two girls entered the wide hall, flushed and laughing. Other girls were lingering about on the stairs. Some were just starting off to evening service at Kingsdene; others were standing in groups, chatting. Nancy Banister came up, and spoke to Maggie. Maggie took her arm, and walked away with her.
Prissie found herself standing alone in the hall. It was as if the delightful friendship cemented between herself and Miss Oliphant in the frosty air outside had fallen to pieces like a castle of cards the moment they entered the house. Prissie felt a chill. Her high spirits went down a very little. Then, resolving to banish the ignoble spirit of distrust, she prepared to run upstairs to her own room.