They hugged each other again, and, as Alma ran down the hall, Nancy stood at the door watching her, with brighter eyes than she had had for a week. But when Alma had disappeared below the landing of the stairs, she walked back into the room with a sober expression.
A quarter of an hour later she went again to the top bureau drawer to get out her gloves, and then thinking for the first time of the amount of money she had left herself, realized that she could have barely sufficient, if that, to defray her expenses of her own day in town. Each of the girls had taken fifteen dollars to last them as pocket money up until Thanksgiving—a little she had already spent on shoe-laces, ribbons and so on, and she had given Alma ten. A glance into her purse showed her to her dismay that she had left herself exactly fifty-four cents. She knew, of course, that she could easily borrow from Charlotte, but this she was absolutely unwilling to do, first because she did not want to have to write to her mother for more money, and secondly because she did not want to do anything that she would not have Alma do. To borrow from Charlotte was one thing, but to have Alma follow her precedent was unwise; for in the first place, Alma would borrow from Mildred Lloyd or Kay Leonard, and in the second place, Alma might not know just where to set her limits. Nancy dropped the purse, and shut the drawer quietly. After all, she told herself, she had not deprived herself of so much pleasure that she should pity herself. It was a beautiful day, clear and sparkling, and she would enjoy herself just as much on a walk across country as at the "Countess Betsey." Nancy had the happy faculty of banishing any regrets for a pleasure which she could not reasonably take, and finding a substitute for it with perfect cheerfulness. The prospect of a free day, which she could spend as she liked, was as full of attraction for her as her original plan for the matinée had been, and when Charlotte strolled in upon her, she was whistling softly as she pulled on her scarlet tam-o'-shanter.
"Listen, Charlotte—don't kill me—but I'm afraid I've got to stay here after all. Do you mind awfully?" Naturally she could not give the reasons for her default on the theatre party; and because she had forgotten to think up a plausible excuse she flushed slightly.
"Oh, come now!" howled Charlotte in dismay. "You can't do anything like that. There's not an earthly reason why you should stay here, and you know it." Then quickly her singularly delicate tact warned her not to press Nancy. The very fact that her friend had not given a reason for breaking their engagement was enough for Charlotte to know that she should not ask for one. The two girls understood each other so well that they knew instinctively when to respect one another's silences.
"Well, if you can't, you can't, I suppose," she said quietly. "I'm awfully sorry; but we can go in next Saturday. If you have anything to do, however, there's no point in my staying around out here. I'll go on in anyway. Do you want me to get anything for you?"
"Not a thing," replied Nancy, feeling an intense gratitude toward Charlotte for not disputing her decision with her. "I'm glad you are going."
"Well, sit down and talk to me while I'm dressing. Alma's gone, hasn't she?"
"Yes. Oh, wear your brown hat, Charlotte—the one with the little feather on it."
"My dear, what does it matter—Drinkwater won't appreciate it."
"Doesn't matter. You'll be a thing of beauty whether she knows it or not, and that's reason enough for wearing it."