“I know; I suppose it is true. You consider me selfish. Well, I will try to improve. And to begin, I beg you will go to Maurice and ask him from me to take you for a long walk. I have kept you too much with me.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Zoe, laughing; “it’s very nice here. I’m not going to leave you all alone.”
“I insist that you go. And don’t fear my being dull. I have much to do, for I must mend my skirt before I put it on to-morrow. Pray leave me your workbox.”
“Why, I never noticed it,” said Zoe, turning to the skirt as it hung on the wall. Five or six inches of braid were hanging in a loop. “But I’ll do it for you in a minute.”
“No,” said Eirene stiffly, “you are not my maid.”
“Then we’ll do it together, if you are so proud. But you can’t work with one hand in a sling.”
“It is only the left, and it will suffice to hold the work,” persisted Eirene. “Go!” she cried, with sudden anger. “I will not have you criticising my untidy stitches. I will do it by myself, if it takes me till dark.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Zoe took her hat and left the room. When she returned at dusk, after a glorious walk through the hills, Eirene had accomplished her task, and was trying the skirt on. Zoe looked at it in surprise.
“Why, how funny it looks!” she said. “You must have puckered it dreadfully. It sticks out in such a queer way above the hem. Let me pull it down.”
She knelt to try and twitch the folds into place, but Eirene pulled them away pettishly.