There had been no chance to speak with Trixy, she left school at two-thirty and now, time for Gloria to leave, the excitement she suppressed all day was threatening to break out—violently.
Even Squire Hanaford’s attempt to make her understand the importance of having a house and lot transferred to her, big, wonderful thing that it was, really seemed trifling compared with the thrill of actually exploring her own house. A deed! Just a document like so many of her dad’s, but the house!
What if the Board of Health had condemned it? Squire Hanaford was right when he said they paid too much attention to new places and none to old. Hadn’t Gloria seen the Gorman kitchen leak like a sieve in the lightest shower Saturday afternoon?
She was borrowing Mona’s wheel again. Marty brought it back, all shined up Sunday right after Sunday School, and Mona didn’t mind in the least lending it a second time. The wheel Marty would ride was sort of mongrel, being composed of many varieties, but it would “go,” he had declared, so that was the only and important consideration.
“The sun’s out!”
“Who cares,” retorted Natalie Warren. “The day is over now.”
“I care. I’m going some place.” Gloria couldn’t hide her eagerness.
“Oh. I suppose you’re going riding with Beatrix Travers,” sneered the petulant Natalie. “Well, I can’t see how some folks can put on such airs.”
“I can,” flung back Gloria, with a face pulled unbecomingly out of shape.
As she hurried home a group fell in easily to Natalie’s mood. They stared after her and “simped.” Natalie had a way of collecting audiences on such occasions, and Gloria Doane was ever a popular topic for dissection. Not that any one added much to Natalie’s opinion. They didn’t need to. It was always causticly complete, but they did coincide, thoroughly.