Trix laughed. “Nonsense, Tibby, angel, nonsense pure and simple. But all the same, I wish I knew for dead certain.”
“So do I,” said Miss Tibbutt anxiously, though she hadn’t the smallest notion what advantage a knowledge of the colour would be to either one of them.
Trix dabbed the stump of her cigarette on the table.
“Well, don’t let her know we think there’s anything wrong. If you want to remain wrapped up in the light-hearted cloak, nothing is more annoying than having any one prying to see what’s underneath,—unless it’s the right person, of course. And we’re not sure that we are—yet. We must just wait till she feels like giving us a peep, if she ever does.”
A silence fell. Miss Tibbutt took up her knitting again. Trix hummed a little air from a popular opera. Presently Miss Tibbutt sighed. Trix left off humming.
“What’s the matter, Tibby?”
Miss Tibbutt sighed more deeply. “I’m afraid it’s my fault,” she said.
“What’s your fault?” demanded Trix.
“I’ve not noticed Pia. I thought everything was all right after what she said. I ought to have noticed. I’ve been too wrapped up in my own affairs. Perhaps if I’d been more sympathetic I should have found out what was the matter.”
Trix laughed, a happy amused, comfortable little laugh.