Martha looked at her attentively. “I don’t quite understand you, Sib. You have rather avoided me during the last day or two. Is it because I am a Speciality? I do hope that will make no difference with my old friends.”
“Oh no,” said Sibyl. “There’s nothing so wonderful in being a Speciality, is there?”
Martha stared. “Well, to me it is very wonderful,” she said; “and I cannot imagine how those other noble-minded girls think me good enough to join them.”
“Oh Martha, are they so good as all that?”
“They are,” said Martha; and her tone was very gloomy. She was thinking of Betty, whom she longed to comfort, whom she earnestly longed to help.
“It’s so queer about Betty,” said Sibyl after a pause. “She seemed to be such a very popular Speciality. Then, all of a sudden, she ceased to be one at all. I can’t understand it.”
“And you are never likely to, Sibyl. What happens in the club is only known to its members.”
Sibyl grew red. What was coming over her? Two or three hours ago she was a girl—weak, it is true; insignificant, it is true—with a passion for Martha West and a most genuine love and admiration for Betty Vivian. Now she almost disliked Betty; and she could not make out what charm she had ever discovered in poor, plain Martha. She got up impatiently. “You will forgive me, Martha,” she said; “but I have lots of things I want to do. I don’t think I will stay just now. Perhaps you will ask me to come and talk to you another day.”
“No, Sibyl, I sha’n’t. When you want me you must try to find me yourself. I don’t understand what is the matter with you to-day.”