“Well, shall we join the others, then! There are such a lot of them talking under that oak tree.”
“It might look a little queer,” said Penelope, “and lunch will be quite soon. Let’s walk about under these trees; we shall be quite in the shade.”
“Well—if we are to appear devoted sisters, let us play the part,” said Brenda, crossly. “After all,” she added, after a moment’s reflection, “I am glad to have a few words with you, Pennie, for I want you to help me all you possibly can.”
“I can’t do anything more, I really can’t,” said Penelope, her eyes growing dark with alarm. “I got you that twenty pounds, and I don’t think I shall ever be happy again!”
“Oh—what a little goose you are! How you harp upon that trifle!—and how far do you think twenty pounds will go in the case of a girl who wants every single thing that a girl ought to have? I thought this dress,”—Brenda looked at her spotted white muslin—“was really quite ‘chic’ until I saw Honora Beverley’s. I must say I don’t like Honora Beverley—of course you won’t whisper it, darling—but she always manages to put me in the shade. On the day of your fête when I wore my pale blue silk, her real Parisian lace made me look commonplace. And now, to-day, her white muslin must have cost pounds more than mine. It is disgusting to be trammelled like this, and I am sure I am fifty times prettier.”
“Don’t, Brenda!” said Penelope, suddenly. As she spoke, she laid her hand on her sister’s arm.
“What do you mean by ‘don’t’? Why do you look at me in that queer way?”
“Because I can’t bear you to talk like that—what’s the good of fighting and struggling for the impossible? You are not born in Honora’s rank of life, and you can never aim at dressing like her. You look very—yes, very—”
“You needn’t say it!” said Brenda, her eyes flashing with passion. “I know what you think of me—I saw it in your face when I came up. You are ashamed of me! It’s a nice thing for one sister to be ashamed of another, and I do my best—my very best—and you know what I wanted that money for—you know it quite well. I could cry, but it would spoil my eyes, and my eyes are my best point I mustn’t shed a tear, though tears are choking me, and I could—oh—I could sob—at your treating me like this, when you know, too—”
“What do I know, Brenda? Brenda, what have I done?”