“What is it?” she asked.
Miss Green spoke, acidly and at length. Virginia, standing by the window, listened, still dazed, to this tale of her willful disobedience, her fool-hardiness, her cruelty to animals, her refusal to stop at a command from her teacher. When Miss Green had finished, she turned to Virginia, as though expecting a denial, or an explanation, but Virginia did not speak. Miss King did, however—very quietly.
“You did quite right, Miss Green, in coming to me, since you did not understand matters—quite right. You see, as regards horseback riding, I left the choice of a horse entirely to Virginia, because we know so little of horses, and I know she is thoroughly familiar with them. I am sure she will always be careful of my desires, which I have fully described to her. Virginia, if you will remain a few minutes, I will talk this matter over with you.”
Miss Green left the room, with feelings quite indescribable. Virginia, still in khaki, with disorderly hair and a heightened color in her cheeks, remained with Miss King. For half an hour they talked together of books and lessons, of Thanksgiving and Vermont, of Wyoming and the mountains. Strangely enough, except for the briefest explanation of Virginia’s inability to obey Miss Green, they did not speak of horseback riding; but when Virginia left she was far happier than when she had entered.
As for Miss King, she sat alone in the brown and gold room and watched the sun go down behind the hills. She seemed thoughtful—troubled, perhaps. By and by she rose from her seat by the window, went to the desk, and wrote a letter. Then she returned and sat in the twilight.
“Harriet has been with me a long time,” she said to herself at last. “But neither because of her superior Latin instruction, nor for the sake of our old friendship, can I any longer allow my girls in The Hermitage to lack a home atmosphere. Perhaps, after all, Athens needs Harriet. I may be doing the Ancient World a favor, who knows?” And the little, gray-haired lady smiled to herself in the twilight.
CHAPTER IX—THE THANKSGIVING ORATION OF LUCILE DU BOSE
“Dorothy, do you think it’s fair?”
The black eyes of Lucile Du Bose, ready at any moment to brim over with discouraged tears, implored her room-mate, who lay upon the couch, deep in a magazine.
“Dorothy, do you?”