"Well, you needn't fly into a temper even if you're not jealous," laughed Elsie. "Do you know you never congratulated me on my poem. I think people thought it rather queer, when every one was saying how much they liked it."
"I couldn't," said Marjorie in a low voice.
"Why not?" demanded Elsie, sharply. She was evidently startled but beyond a slightly heightened color, she showed no sign of embarrassment.
"I'll tell you when we get home," whispered Marjorie, with a glance at Hortense, who was sitting in the opposite seat.
Not another word was spoken until the carriage drew up before the big hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Carleton were out, and the girls went at once to their rooms, without exchanging the usual good-nights. Marjorie's heart was beating painfully fast, and her cheeks were burning, but she did not waver in her determination to "have it out" with Elsie before they went to bed. So instead of beginning to undress, she sat down to wait until Hortense should have finished waiting on her cousin and gone away. She had, with some difficulty, at last succeeded in convincing the maid that she did not require assistance herself.
"Elsie will be terribly angry," she told herself mournfully, "and it will be very horrid and uncomfortable, but it wouldn't be honest not to let her know I recognized that poem. Perhaps she can explain—oh, I do hope she can—and then I can tell Beverly, and everything will be all right again."
She heard the outer door close behind Hortense, and was just about to go to her cousin's room, when her door was pushed unceremoniously open and Elsie herself came in. Elsie's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were flashing, but whether with anger or excitement Marjorie could not tell.
"Well," she began in a tone which she evidently intended to be quite cheerful and indifferent, "I've gotten rid of Hortense. She seemed to think she ought to stay till Papa and Mamma came home, but I told her we didn't need her. Now you can tell me what you said you would when we got home. Do be quick about it, though, for I'm awfully sleepy, and I want to go to bed."
Before answering Marjorie went over to her cousin's side, and laid a timid hand on her shoulder.
"Elsie," she said gently, "I'm so sorry; I hate to say it, but I've got to. It's—about that poem; I've read it before. You didn't think you really made it up, did you?"