“I won't touch the old thing,” declared Alexia, in a towering passion, and forgetting it was not one of the girls. “And I may be heedless, but I can be polite,” and she threw down the napkins, and turned her back on the whole thing.
“Alexia!” cried Polly, turning very pale; and, rushing up to her, she bore her away under the trees. “Why, Alexia Rhys, you've talked awfully to Miss Anstice—just think, the sister of our Miss Salisbury!”
“Was that old thing a Salisbury?” asked Alexia, quite unmoved. “I thought it was a rude creature that didn't know what it was to have good manners.”
“Alexia, Alexia!” mourned Polly, and for the first time in Alexia's remembrance wringing her hands, “to think you should do such a thing!”
Alexia, seeing Polly wring her hands, felt quite aghast at herself. “Polly, don't do that,” she begged.
“Oh, I can't help it.” And Polly's tears fell fast.
Alexia gave her one look, as she stood there quite still and pale, unable to stop the tears racing over her cheeks, turned, and fled with long steps back to the crowd of girls surrounding poor Miss Anstice, Miss Salisbury herself wiping the linen gown with an old napkin in her deft fingers.
“I beg your pardon,” cried Alexia gustily, and plunging up unsteadily. “I was bad to say such things.”
“You were, indeed,” assented Miss Anstice tartly. “Sister, that is quite enough; the gown cannot possibly be made any better with your incessant rubbing.”
Miss Salisbury gave a sigh, and got up from her knees, and put down the napkin. Then she looked at Alexia. “She is very sorry, sister,” she said gently. “I am sure Alexia regrets exceedingly her hasty speech.”