“Very well.”
“We shall all leave during the course of the day, but you are staying at the school.”
“I am.”
“Come to my room at ten o’clock. Good-bye for the present.”
Penelope flew out of sight. She rushed upstairs, changed her Greek dress for a pretty, simple white one, in which she had been apparelled during the early part of the day and, after considerable searching, found her sister. Brenda was refreshing herself with cake and claret cup when Penelope came up to her.
“Oh—good gracious!” she said, when she saw Penelope’s face very pale now, with her eyes looking lighter and more faded than usual because of the sudden tears she had shed. “I do wish to goodness I had not seen you again to-night.”
“What a fearfully unkind thing to say, Brenda, when I have been just longing to be with you.”
“I could have gone home and dreamt all night that I had a beautiful sister,” continued Brenda—“but now—”
Just then young Mr Hungerford appeared.
“Ah,”—he said to Brenda—“you have found your sister. May I congratulate you!” he said; and he looked at poor, dowdy little Penelope with that wonder which his honest eyes could not but reflect. For how was it possible that she had ever been got to present one of the most majestic figures in ancient story!