Ethel Barrington bit her lips; then she laughed softly and continued to watch the absorbed face of her companion—this time in the desired silence. By and bye Dorothy drew a long breath and turned to her.
“Isn’t it beautiful!” she murmured reverently.
Miss Barrington gave a short laugh and sat up.
“Yes, very beautiful, I suppose; but, do you know, I’ve seen so much I’m spoiled—absolutely spoiled for a scene like that? I’d rather look at you—you are wonderfully refreshing. I don’t know another girl that would have snapped me up as you did a minute ago.”
“Indeed, I beg your pardon,” began Dorothy in distress.
“Don’t!” interrupted her friend, with a petulant gesture; “you’ll be like all the rest if you do.”
“But it was very rude,” insisted Dorothy earnestly. “A view like this always seems to me like a glorious piece of music, and I want everything quiet as I would if I were hearing a Beethoven symphony, you know. That is why I couldn’t bear even the tones of your voice—but it was rude of me, very.”
Ethel sighed, and fell to picking a daisy to pieces.
“I used to feel that way, once,” she said; “I did, really.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” replied Dorothy, with a smile.