Bertha observed her critically. Sarah’s drab gown, made with severe plainness, took all the life out of her hair and complexion, and made her tall figure gaunt. Bertha cast her brown eyes down at her own lilac muslin, overflowing with little rippling frills and furbelows, and sighed, a genuine sigh of pity, for another woman’s misuse of her opportunities.
“What have you been doing lately, Sarah? I haven’t seen you for some days.”
“Nothing much,” said Sarah.
“I expected you yesterday; Dick Quimby asked why you were not here. He’s asked after you twice lately, Sarah. I think he’s beginning to be fond of you.”
“Because he asked after me twice?” said Sarah. “Perhaps he’ll propose to me to-morrow.” She gave a spasmodic laugh, and the color came and went in her face. Bertha gazed at her in genuine surprise.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Sarah,” she said. “I’m glad you came in, for I wanted to ask you to join us in a little trip to the Lakes. Dick has to go Thursday, and we have concluded to make up a party. We’ll be gone a couple of weeks, and Mr. Quimby is to join us there. I think we’ll have a lovely time.”
“You’re very kind,” said Sarah, pulling nervously at her fan, “but I don’t think I can go.”
“Why not? You won’t have to dress.”
“It’s not that. The fact is—Did I ever speak to you of Will Bronson?”
“No, who is he?”