She looked with genuine admiration at the glossy black waves which the other had drawn back over her ears in the French style.
"Oh, do you like it?" asked Regina eagerly, "I think its hideous. But you know I lost one of my combs and—but let's go and see what the boys are doing," she broke off suddenly, turning crimson and hastening to the porch. Once outside she plunged at once into conversation with the two boys, and Peggy had no opportunity of picking up the dropped stitches of conversation. She caught herself puzzling over it. Why had Regina been so mortified, and apparently alarmed, when she had announced the loss of one of her side-combs? Right there a strange thought came into Peggy's mind. The brilliant-studded comb that Roy had picked up! Could it be that—but no, the idea was too fantastic. In the pages of a book, perhaps, but not in real life. And yet—and yet—Peggy, as she watched the graceful, dark-eyed girl talking with splendid animation, found herself wondering—and wondering.
The next day, just as Peggy and Roy were starting out for a run to the Bancroft place, Fanning Harding and Regina Mortlake came whizzing up to the gate in the latter's big touring car—the one in which she had arrived in Sandy Beach. The machine was the gift of her father. It was a commodious, maroon-colored car, with a roomy tonneau and fore-doors and torpedo body of the latest type.
Beside it the Blue Bird looked somewhat small and insignificant. But Roy and Peggy felt no embarrassment. On the contrary, they were quite certain the Blue Bird was the better car.
"Where are you off to?" asked Fanning in friendly tones, while Regina bowed and smiled very sweetly to Peggy.
"Going to take a spin in the direction of the Bancroft's," said Roy, starting his car.
"What fun," cried Regina Mortlake, "so are we. Let's race."
"I don't believe in racing," rejoined Peggy.
"No, of course it is dangerous," said Fanning, "I guess Roy is a bit timid with that old car, too. Besides it's all in the way you handle a machine;"
Roy flushed angrily.