"Well, dear me, we are not working much," cried Alexia, pulling off her gloves; "how many notes have you to write, Joe?"
"Oh, a dozen, I believe," said Joel; "that is, counting this one."
"To whom is that?" asked Alexia, peering over his shoulder. "Oh, to Amy
Loughead."
"Yes, I promised Polly this should go first. That Loughead girl was expecting her over this morning. Oh, she's a precious nuisance," grumbled Joel, dipping his pen in the ink.
"Well, then, I will write to Desiree Frye," said Alexia. "She was going to play a solo, Polly said, at the Recital. Oh, dear me, what shall I say?"
"Polly said tell them all what had happened, and that she should stay away as long as Aunty needed her, but she hoped to be home soon, and she would write them from New York."
"Oh, Joe, what a lot," exclaimed Alexia, leaving her pen poised in mid air.
"Cut it short, then," said Joel. "I don't care, only that's the sense of it."
"Oh, dear," began one of the girls, "I can't bear to write of the accident, and in the holidays, too."
Alexia made an uneasy gesture, scrawled two or three words, then threw down her pen and got out of her chair. "It's no use," she cried, running up to Pickering, who, his hands in his pockets, had his back to them all, and was looking out of the window. "I can't let myself do anything till I've said I'm sorry I was so cross," and she put out her hand.