"With you?" asked Matilda, her dull eyes lighting up. "Do you want us to be chums?"
Cecil hated herself—she found that to gain her object she must really act with guile. Never before had straightforward Cecil stooped to this sort of work.
"Never mind, it is in the cause of friendship," she said to her aggrieved conscience. Aloud she replied:
"I have not thought whether we are to be chums or not. I simply want a companion to spend the afternoon with me."
"Don't you like the girls at St. Dorothy's?" asked Matilda, in a low voice.
"Of course I do! they are delightful. We can discuss them when we are out—that is, if you are coming."
Matilda had every intention of coming. It was all very well to be rich, and to be surrounded by luxuries, and to be fawned on by girls poorer than herself, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she lacked those things which girls like Cecil Ross and Molly Lavender, and even poor, low-born Kate O'Connor, possessed. She lacked sadly all that nobility of spirit which shone in Cecil's eyes, and was reflected in every tone of Molly's sweet voice. She hated the girls who possessed those gifts which had been denied to her. She underwent unceasing mortification from the fact that her own figure was squat, her own face plain and freckled, from the knowledge that no amount of fine dress could make her look the least like a lady.
"Yes, I'll go," she said, after a pause. "I did not mean to go out this afternoon, for I have just had a new novel sent to me by post, and I meant to sit by the fire and enjoy it, but as you have been good enough to call, Cecil, I won't refuse your request. I dare say you find it rather lonely at present, but you will soon have plenty of friends. Perhaps you know that I am going to St. Dorothy's at the half term. When I go there, I'll promise to do my best for you."
"Well, run and put on your hat now," said Cecil, "and let us start."
"Where shall we go?" asked Matilda, when the girls had left Dacre House.