their hitherto warm relations which they both very distinctly dated from that day of the picnic early in the summer. Hilda through an essential honesty that governed all she did or thought found herself unable to act towards Mimi with the old cordiality and, to save both of them embarrassment, had stayed away from Mimi as much as she could. Mimi noticed this change and wondered what had caused it. Vaguely she felt it was due to her own friendship with Carl but she could not see why this should affect Hilda—it was only a friendship and nothing more. She had become vexed with Hilda and hurt that Hilda by her actions had shown there was a certain distrust of Mimi’s loyalty. Thus the breach had widened and the intense pride of the two had kept each from making any advance that might have closed it.
The two girls faced each other, praying for an opening while they talked of little and unimportant things which served, rather ineffectually, as a mask for their real feelings. Ineffectually, for both knew the other was eager for some chance phrase, some little thing, which might put them at ease. Five—ten—fifteen minutes passed. They still talked of inconsequentialities. The air was becoming more tense. They each longed, ached desperately, for some way out of the difficult situation between them. Hilda began to wish she had not come, to think of excuses for leaving, her mission unfulfilled.
It was Mimi who in desperation and uneasiness broke the spell.
“You’ve been acting queerly all summer, Hilda,” she challenged. “Why have you acted so?” She hated herself for the awkward way in which she had spoken, the almost belligerent note in her voice when she had intended to speak with utmost casualness.
“Why?” Hilda echoed. “Don’t you know why?”
“No—I can’t see—Has it anything to do with Carl?” she blurted out, knowing, as she spoke, it had wholly to do with Carl.