Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart.
“Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you go the people just fall down and worship you.” As she spoke she let down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud, a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked critically at her.
“You are beautiful,” she said slowly. “Your hair is lovely, and your big blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you. But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it,” she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, “I can please them in a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen. But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would forget me. They wouldn't forget you.”
“What nonsense!” said Margaret brusquely. “It is not your voice alone; it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft about you.”
“But the women don't care for me,” said Iola, with the same slow, thoughtful voice. “If I wanted very much I believe I could make them. But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me.”
“Now you're talking nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “You ought to have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening.”
“Now,” continued Iola, ignoring her remark, “the women all like you, and the men, too, in a way.”
“Don't talk nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “When you're around the boys don't look at me.”
“Yes, they do,” said Iola, as if pondering the question. “Ben does.”
Margaret laughed scornfully. “Ben likes my jelly.”