“Is your new dress done?” asked Maria, abruptly.
“It is going to be finished this week,” said Lily. “Do you think I am horrid, proposing to tell you what he said, Maria?”
“No, only I don't care to hear any more about it.”
“Well, I hope you don't think I am horrid.”
“I don't, dear,” said Maria, with an odd sensation of tenderness for the other, weaker girl, whom she had handled in a measure roughly with her own stronger character. She looked admiringly at her as she spoke. “Nobody can ever really think you horrid,” she said.
“If they did, I should think I was horrid my own self,” said Lily, with the ready acquiescence in the opinion of another which signified the deepest admiration, even to her own detriment, and was the redeeming note in her character.
Maria laughed. “I declare, Lily,” said she, “I hope you will never be accused of a crime, for I do believe even if you were innocent, you would side with the lawyer for the prosecution.”
“I don't know but I should,” said Lily.
Then she ventured to say something more about George Ramsey, encouraged by Maria's friendliness, but she met with such scanty sympathy that she refrained. She arose soon, and said she thought she must go home.
“I am tired to-night, and I think I had better go to bed early,” she said.