Just then a girl came into the room. She was younger than Isabelle—ten years old, perhaps. She was fair and frail with a discontented little face.
“Peggy, this is Isabelle Bryce. This is Peggy Starr, Isabelle. I thought thee might show Isabelle her room, Peggy.”
The two girls looked at each other.
“All right; come on,” said the younger girl, ungraciously.
They mounted the wide stairs to the corridor above, with bedrooms opening off on each side. Peggy led the way into a huge room, with many windows. It had two beds, two bureaus, two closets.
“I s’pose you’re my room mate,” Peggy remarked, staring at her.
“Do you sleep here?”
“I slept in another girl’s room last night, but I belong here.”
“When did you come?”