There was something in her tone and in her gentle look which made Brenda gaze at her, not only with envy, but with dislike.
“Why should your conscience be more tender than my sister’s?” was her answer. “And who was Helen of Troy? I never heard of her.”
Honora opened her brown eyes. She had not believed that any one existed in the wide world who had not, at one time or another, made the acquaintance of this celebrated woman.
“Penelope will tell you about her,” she said gently. “Of course you know, Miss Carlton, what is wrong for one need not be necessarily wrong for another. We have each to answer for our own conscience, have we not? Ah, and this is Penelope’s room.” She knocked at the door. “Penelope, your sister has come.”
Hurried steps were heard inside the chamber. The door was flung open and Penelope, all in white and looking almost pretty, stood on the threshold. Honora immediately withdrew, and the two sisters found themselves for a few minutes alone.
“Do take off your cloak and let me look at you,” said Penelope. “I have been telling the girls so much about you, and most of them are all agog to see you. Dear, dear! pale blue silk! Well, it is rather pretty, only I wish you had been in white; but you look very nice all the same, dear.”
“You ate highly dissatisfied, Penelope; and I’m sure I’ve done all that mortal could to oblige you,” said Brenda.
“And I to oblige you,” retorted Penelope. “I can tell you, I had trouble about those five-pound notes, but you got them safely, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I did: I only wish you could have managed more. This dress is much prettier than your insipid white. White is all very well for schoolgirls, but I am grown up, remember.”
“Yes, yea—and you look very nice,” said Penelope. “It’s more than you do, Penelope; you’re not a bit pretty,” said frank Brenda.