either, so there!"

Berta tucked a pensive skip in between steps as they moved through the
gloomy corridor past rain-beaten windows. "It wasn't like Gertrude to
burst out like that just because Sara came late to our domestic evening,
but it did spoil the fudges and the game and everything."

"And not to give her a chance to explain!" fumed Bea's temper always
ready to flame over any injustice. "Before she could open her lips,
Gertrude blazed up, cold as an icicle----"

"What?" interpolated demure Berta with her most deeply shocked accent,
"an icicle blaze?"

"Oh, hush, you're the most disagreeable person! I wish Lila hadn't gone
home. Well, she did just that. She said the artistic temperament was no
excuse for discourteous falsehood--or she almost the same as said
it--meaning breaking your word, you know, for Sara had promised she would
come at eight, and there it was quarter to nine. She said that it might
be wiser next time to invite somebody more reliable about keeping
engagements. Sara did not answer a word--only went white as a sheet and
walked out of the room. Now she even cuts us--because we were
there--stares right over our heads when we meet her anywhere."

"I'm sure Gertrude was sorry the minute she had spoken. And she's been
working awfully hard over committees and the maids' classes and the last
play. She was tired and nervous up to the brim, and then to wait and wait
and wait for Sara. Why, I was getting cross myself."

"Well, why doesn't she beg Sara's pardon then, and make it all right?"
demanded the young judge severely. "Sara has always simply worshiped her,
but because she never has made mistakes nor learned how to apologize, and
everybody admires her and flatters her, she is too proud to say she was
wrong. It's plain vanity--that's what it is. She can't bear to make
herself do it."

"She's unhappy,--that's what I think, though she sort of pretends she
doesn't care."

"She's cross as a bear--that's what I think," snapped Bea, "and Sarah has
dark circles under her eyes. It's dreadful--those two girls who used to
be inseparable! Quarrels are--are horrible!" The impetus of this
conviction almost succeeded in hurling its proprietor against the water
cooler at the bathroom door. "Say, Berta, what if you and I should
quarrel, with Robbie Belle and Lila one thousand miles away?"

"I'm too amiable," responded Berta complacently, "sugar is sweet----"

The tin cup dropped with a flurried rattle agains