Leslie struggled hard to regain her ordinary calmness; but, try as she would, she could not get it back. Annie had hurt her too deeply. To take a letter purporting to be written in her hand to Mr. Parker, to borrow money in her name, to get Mr. Parker to think so badly of her. Oh, the sin was too dark; it cut too sore; it lay too deep.
Leslie shivered as she returned slowly to the house. Eileen Chetwynd met her in the quadrangle and ran up eagerly.
“We were looking for you, Leslie,” she cried. “We wanted you to come on the water with us this lovely afternoon. Have you a headache? You don’t look well.”
“Perhaps I have a headache; but I don’t quite know,” replied Leslie.
“You don’t quite know? You look queer.”
“I will go upstairs and lie down.” Leslie ran past Eileen, who stared after her in some wonder.
When Leslie entered her room, Annie, still buried in her novel, was crouched up on the window-sill. Her books, papers, and problems were pushed aside; her hair was rumpled, her cheeks slightly flushed; nevertheless, there was an expression of rest about her face that Leslie had never before seen there. She turned away from her, feeling that she could scarcely bear to inhabit the same room. For the first time in her gentle life hatred of another was visiting her. Her religious principles did not come to her aid in this crisis; she felt a sense of being crushed, she felt sure that because of this thing she must go halt and maimed for the remainder of her days.
Annie looked up as she came in.
“Had a good time?” she asked in a light, careless sort of voice.
“I was down by the river,” replied Leslie coldly.