She had rather a shock when she entered the library. Doreen was not there, but Althea was sitting with her back to the light, with a green shade over her eyes. The pale tints of her gown—Waveney discovered she always wore soft, neutral tints—the pallor of her long, thin face, and the disguising shade, gave her a strangely pathetic look.
She held out her hand with a faint smile.
"I am so sorry, my dear, that this should have happened, and on your first day, too! It is the worst attack I have had for months, and no remedies seemed to have any effect. But the pain has gone now, and to-morrow I shall be myself again."
"Oh, I am so glad of that!"
"I am glad of it, too," returned Althea; "for I would not willingly miss one of our Thursday evenings. You will be surprised to hear that we have begun a course of Shakespeare readings. Some of the girls are so intelligent, and read so well! Our old friend, Mr. Chaytor, helps us. He is a barrister, but a very poor one, I am sorry to say; but he is wonderfully clever. He used to read to the girls. Then he got up an elocution class; and now he has started these Shakespeare readings, and the girls do so enjoy them!"
"It sounds very nice."
"I think you will say so. We have had Tempest and Twelfth Night, and to-morrow it is to be As You Like It. Mr. Chaytor is to be Touchstone and the melancholy Jacques. Rather contrasts, are they not?"
At this moment Doreen re-entered. She looked pleased as she noticed the animation in her sister's voice, and as the gong sounded, she said,—
"You will like Miss Ward to come and talk after dinner, Althea, while I write those letters." And Althea smiled and nodded.
"She looks very ill," Waveney said, in a low voice, as they walked down the corridor.