“Polly’s gone to town,” said Phronsie, cutting off some blossoms to add to the bundle in her hand.
“What is all over town?” asked Phronsie quietly.
“Oh, about that dreadful Strange, or Tupper girl—how she wormed herself in here at Polly’s reception. I heard of it this afternoon, and I just stopped to run home and tell Baby I was coming out here to let Polly know. Oh, dear me!”
“I’m sorry for Grace,” breathed Phronsie pityingly. “Oh! I hope she won’t know anything about it.”
“Sorry for Grace,” repeated Alexia, throwing down the fan, “well, I should say! I believe it was all a plan between Mrs. Atherton and that Mrs. Drysdale, to get her here.”
“Oh, no, Alexia! it wasn’t,” said Phronsie decidedly, shaking her head; “because Grace has told us all about it. It was nobody’s fault but her own.”
“Well, I can’t abide that Mrs. Drysdale,” declared Alexia, who had reasons of her own for not being in love with that lady; “and as for Mrs. Atherton, why, she’s well enough, I suppose, only a trifle weak in the upper story. Well, and oh, dear me! Miss Fitzwilliam said”—
“Did Miss Fitzwilliam tell you,” asked Phronsie quietly, “the story of Grace’s coming here?”
“Yes,” said Alexia; “she told us all. And she said she saw through her disguise, and that it was Mrs. Atherton’s niece.”