Meriweather had been to the Point the day before with Hildegarde. They had had hot chocolate—with muffins. Not the English kind of muffin, but the crisp, golden cones of Maryland fame. And Hildegarde like a child, buttering hers, had said:
"I love it like this, Merry—with the storm outside, and all this warmth and deliciousness within."
For the storm had caught them, but Meriweather had wrapped Hildegarde in the army cape which he had carried across his saddle, and had ridden home with his hand on her horse's bridle.
He wished now that Sally had not suggested going to the Point. It was fine to ride with Sally, but to sit across from her at a tea-table was another story. Sally had no little outpourings of confidence, no wistful petitions for advice. The charm of Hildegarde lay for Meriweather in a sort of quaint childishness, in her hot little tempers, her quick repentances. She was so utterly herself, without affectation.
Sally, too, seemed utterly herself. Yet her individuality was that of premeditation. She knew the effects she wanted to make, and made them. All the girls of her set were like that. They created a rôle and played it. Just now the rôle was one of perfect frankness and ingenuousness. Tomorrow the rôle might be different.
It was yesterday at tea that Hildegarde had told him breathlessly of her reconciliation with her father.
"If he hadn't come upstairs, my heart would have been broken. I was crying my eyes out."
"Yet you would have left him?"
"I could not have stayed, could I?"
