The accolade was perfunctory: Palla’s first glance informed her that Marya had grown a trifle more svelte since they had met––more brilliant in her distinctive coloration. There was a tawny beauty about the girl that almost blazed from her hair and delicately sanguine skin and lips.
They seated themselves, and Marya lighted the cigarette which Palla had refused; and they fell into the animated, gossiping conversation characteristic of such reunions.
“Vanya?” repeated Marya, smiling, “no, I have not seen him. That is quite finished, you see. But I hope he is well. Do you happen to know?”
“He seems––changed. But he is working hard, which is always best for the unhappy. And he and his somewhat vociferous friend, Mr. Wilding, are very busy preparing for their Philadelphia concert.”
“Wilding,” repeated Marya, as though swallowing something distasteful. “He was the last straw! But tell me, Palla, what are you doing these jolly days of the new year?”
“Nothing.... Red Cross, canteen, club––and recently I go twice a day to the Memorial Hospital.”
“Why?”
“John Estridge is ill there.”
“What is the matter with him?”
“Pneumonia.”