"No, I don't," said Beverly, honestly.
"I'm sorry; I wish you did; she's so clever, and—and there are lots of nice things about her. You see, she is an only child, and her father and mother worship her. I suppose she can't help being a little spoiled."
"Well, you are an only child, too, and I have no doubt your family are as fond of you as Elsie's are of her, but you are not spoiled."
Marjorie was silent. She felt that loyalty to her cousin required her to say something in Elsie's defence, and yet what could she say? After a moment's silence Beverly went on.
"I should like your cousin a lot better if she resigned from being president of that Club."
"She—she tore up the poem," faltered Marjorie. "She said it was trash. I don't think she meant to do anything mean, but she is so clever, she couldn't bear to have any other poem better than hers."
"You're a loyal little soul, Marjorie," said Beverly, approvingly, "but all you can say won't alter the fact that your cousin did a mean, contemptible thing. She knows I found her out, and she hasn't looked me straight in the face since. I don't like sneaks in girls any better than in boys."
Marjorie felt the conversation had gone far enough. She did not wish to discuss Elsie even with Beverly Randolph, although the two had become great friends during the past ten days, so after a little pause, she changed the subject by asking her companion if he did not think they had better be turning towards home.
Beverly glanced at his watch.
"I suppose we'd better," he said, reluctantly. "I hate to cut our last ride short, but Mammy will be heart-broken if we keep her waffles waiting."