“I am sure, Aunt Harriet,” she said icily, “that I misunderstand you.”
“Now, Gloria, don’t go getting bitter,” said the other. “I certainly do not mean to propose anything that your father would not like. I was just only thinking, if you really couldn’t bear to go—”
“I can’t, but I’m going,” flung back Gloria. “And I suppose I had better register today.”
“While you’re out you may as well get some things from the store,” said her aunt, ignoring her indignation. “We won’t want much but we’ve got to eat, I suppose,” she conceded.
For a moment Gloria held her breath, then she exclaimed impulsively:
“Oh, Aunt Harriet, why do I have to do all this!” Tears welled into her dark, earnest eyes.
“Now, there, Glory,” soothed the woman. “It’ll be all right. You won’t notice the time—”
“Won’t notice it—!”
“I mean, a winter isn’t long and perhaps even by next term—” she stopped and gave her head a pathetic toss. “You see, Glory, with Hazel’s voice and her—her ways, she just couldn’t be—put off.”
“Oh, her voice,” cried Gloria, “what difference can her voice make to me?”