Then there came a knock at the door, and a maid brought in a tray, on which was a small silver tea-pot and cream-jug, a china cup and saucer, and a plate of delicately cut bread and butter. It seemed strange to Marjorie to be thus waited upon, for she had been waiting upon others all her life, and as she sat in the armchair by the fire, pouring out the tea which had been placed on a small table beside her, she felt that, so far as she could see at present, the lines had indeed fallen for her in pleasant places.
[CHAPTER XX]
THE PHOTO OF A FRIEND
WHEN Marjorie first saw Lady Violet, she thought that hers was the most beautiful face that she had ever seen; yet she was very pale, and had a weary look in her eyes which told of pain and weakness. She held out her hand as Marjorie entered.
"Miss Douglas, I am glad to see you."
Marjorie took the low chair by Lady Violet's side, and told her that she hoped she would tell her exactly what she would like her to do, and that she would let her help her in any way that she could.
"Oh! I don't want you to do anything," she said, "only to amuse me. I'm so sick of seeing nobody but Collins; my mother and sister come up as often as they can, but we have so many visitors, and they have so many calls to make, and there is so much going on of one kind and another, that they are obliged to leave me hours alone sometimes. This is my worst time; I get so tired in the evening, and awfully cramped with lying so long in one position. You mustn't mind if I am cross sometimes; I often am."
Marjorie laughed, and told her she did not think that was possible.
"Oh, but it is. I worry poor Collins to death. Now I am tired and can't talk; will you talk to me?"
Marjorie found it very difficult to know what to say. It is one thing to join in a conversation, and quite another thing to talk to a silent person without having anything particular to say. She could not imagine how to begin, and then a bright thought struck her.