The little old lady smiled up at her.
"Goodbye, my dear. You've taken care of me like as if you'd been my own daughter. I ain't much used to jauntin' about, an' it frets me. Are your folks here? If not, I'm sure Henry wouldn't mind—"
"Oh, somebody'll turn up to meet me, Mrs. Doane. I'll be all right. Goodbye. We did have a pleasant trip down, didn't we? Traveling isn't really so bad after all."
Then as Marcia watched, she saw the lithe young creature stoop suddenly and kiss the withered cheek.
The next instant she was swinging up the platform.
The slim figure in its well-tailored blue suit; the trimly shod feet; the small hat so provokingly tilted over the bright eyes, the wealth of golden curls that escaped from beneath it all shattered Marcia's calculations. She had thought of Sylvia Hayden as farm-bred—the product of an inland, country town—a creature starved for breadth of outlook and social opportunity. It was disconcerting to discover that she was none of these things.
In view of her sophistication, Marcia's proposed philanthropy took on an aspect of impertinence.
Well, if she herself was chagrined, there was consolation in seeing that the girl was equally discomfited.
As she approached Marcia, she accosted her uncertainly with the words:
"Pardon me. I am looking for a relative—a Mrs. Howe. You don't happen to know, do you—"