Marjorie was silent; what could she say? And after a moment her aunt went on in her fretful, complaining voice.
"I don't believe you have the least idea what a noble, splendid girl Elsie is. It was rather hard for her at first when she heard you were coming to spend the winter, for of course it couldn't help making some difference. She has never had to share anything with any one else before. But she was so sweet and unselfish about it, and I did hope things might go on as they had begun. But now you have begun to quarrel, and I suppose there will be nothing but trouble and unpleasantness all winter."
"She was so sweet and unselfish about it!" How those words hurt Marjorie, and all the time she had been thinking that Elsie had looked forward to meeting her almost, if not quite as much, as she had looked forward to knowing the cousin who was "the next best thing to a sister." It was only by a mighty effort that she managed to choke back the flood of scalding tears, which threatened to overwhelm her.
"I'm very sorry, Aunt Julia," she said tremulously; "I didn't mean to quarrel with Elsie. If she had told you what it was about perhaps you would have understood."
"Well, she wouldn't tell," said Mrs. Carleton, crossly, "so there is no use in talking about that. All I want to say to you is that I am very much annoyed, and sincerely hope nothing so unpleasant will happen again. Elsie has gone to dancing-school, and Hortense has gone with her, as my head was so bad. Now I am going back to my room to lie down for a while; perhaps I may be better by luncheon time."
That was the most unhappy day Marjorie had ever spent in her life. It seemed to her as if the morning would never end, and when her aunt appeared at luncheon she still wore an air of injured dignity, and entertained Marjorie during the meal, with a long account of Elsie's many accomplishments, a subject of which her niece was becoming heartily tired, although she would scarcely have admitted the fact even to herself. Soon after luncheon Mr. Carleton telephoned to say that he would come uptown in time to drive with his wife, and Aunt Julia proposed that Marjorie should go for a walk with Hortense. The girl's own head was aching by this time, and she was glad of a brisk walk in the keen, frosty air, but she was so unusually silent and preoccupied, that the maid asked her anxiously if she "had the homesickness."
"Yes," said Marjorie, with a catch in her voice, "I've got it badly to-day."
"Ah, I understand," murmured Hortense, softly, "Mademoiselle is like me—I, too, often have the homesickness."
Elsie did not reach home till after five, as Carol's mother had taken the two girls to the theater, and even then she took no notice of Marjorie, but went at once to her mother's room, where Marjorie heard her giving a long and animated account of the play she had seen.
"By the way," remarked Mr. Carleton at dinner that evening, "I forgot to ask about the Club—how did the poems turn out?"