“At seventeen?” asked Connie, ironically.
Nora nodded again.
Connie turned away, and walked to the window. She was enraged with Nora, whose attack upon her seemed quite inexplicable and incredible. Then, all in a moment, a bitter forlornness overcame her. Nora, standing by the table, and already pierced with remorse, saw her cousin’s large eyes fill with tears. Connie sat down with her face averted. But Nora—trembling all over—perceived that she was crying. The next moment, the newcomer found Nora kneeling beside her, in the depths of humiliation and repentance.
“I am a beast!—a horrid beast! I always am. Oh, please, please don’t cry!”
“You forget”—said Connie, with difficulty—“how I—how I miss my mother!”
And she broke into a fit of weeping. Nora, beside herself with self-disgust, held her cousin embraced, and tried to comfort her. And presently, after an agitated half-hour, each girl seemed to herself to have found a friend. Reserve had broken; they had poured out confidences to each other; and after the thunder and the shower came the rainbow of peace.
Before Nora departed, she looked respectfully at the beautiful dress of white satin, draped with black, which Annette had laid out upon the bed in readiness for the Vice-Chancellor’s party.
“It will suit you perfectly!” she said, still eager to make up. Then—eyeing Constance—
“You know, of course, that you are good-looking?”
“I am not hideous—I know that,” said Constance, laughing. “You odd girl!”