“Five shillings an hour!” exclaimed Joan, kicking the fireirons down with a clatter. “It’s so little; I shan’t have earned enough by Christmas to buy a winter jacket, and besides, I owe you so much, Embrance!”
“Never mind about that, Joanie; I have enough for the present, if we are careful.”
“It is so tiresome of Horace to be away just when I want him most,” continued Joan, “but he’ll come to-morrow; he has enough to do; he ought to be able to help me. Do try and be in early to-morrow.”
Embrance shook her head. “I can’t be home till seven o’clock.”
“Put off that stupid lesson.”
“I’m afraid it is impossible.”
“I want you to see Horace. You never do anything I ask you!”
“I am very sorry, Joan.”
“What’s the good of being sorry?” asked Joan, pettishly. “No, no! I don’t mean it!” She turned round sharply and saw that her friend’s eyes were full of tears. In a second, she had flung down her book and was kneeling at Embrance’s chair: “Do forgive me, it isn’t true. You are the only person in the world who has real patience with me. Don’t mind what I said; I didn’t mean it.”
It took some time to calm Joan down after her fit of penitence, but at last she went back to her novel.