Meriweather laughed. "What if I do?"
"Well, I'm always dreading the moment when you'll find the One Woman, and I won't have any one to ride with, or play golf with, or make love to—"
They were laughing together now. Sally was never, Meriweather reflected, serious for more than a minute. And the things she said to him were as light as a feather.
Yet it was not a feather-light Sally who presently slipped away and ran to Hildegarde's room. She tapped.
"May I come in?"
Hildegarde opened the door. She had taken off the pretty dress and was in the sober little robe she had brought with her. She was not yet used to wearing the fragile negligées Miss Anne had bought, and then, too, her mother had made this.
"My dear," Sally said, "I have a feeling that you are up here breaking your heart. And I hate it. I wish you would come down and let us make you happy."
Hildegarde reached out an impulsive hand. "How dear of you to say that!"
For a moment the two girls clung together. Then Sally drew away.
"Now we are friends for always, aren't we? I am really rather good at friendships."
"You are very understanding. I was feeling lost and lonely."
"Well," Sally was somewhat cryptic, "I may not know what it is to lose a mother, but I know what it is to do without somebody—I want—very much—
