“You must be Mrs. Daquin’s little girl. This is my Hilda—” she began. “Oh, I see you’re friends already,” she smiled.
“Come on, let’s sit over there on the steps and talk,” said Hilda simply, taking Mimi’s hand.
Through the buzz of conversation, through the games of flinch (these gentle ladies got a delicious sense of near-wickedness from this simple game played with pasteboard cards which were not playing-cards), even through the stir created by the announcement that refreshments would be served in the dining-room, Mimi and Hilda sat there and talked. They began with questions of each other, about school, about their childhood, revealing little intimacies that subtly wove between them a gossamer band of friendship, fragile and almost invisible, yet with the strength of piano wire. Nor was this union born of spoken words. Much more came to each of them from the other in the little moments of silence, when by accident hand touched hand or smile met smile. Mimi, through all of her fourteen years, had had no confidante other than her father and, despite deepest bonds between father and daughter, there are some secrets too precious to be told even to a father like Jean. Mimi felt tender affection surge through her for this newfound friend. She longed to stroke her hair, to kiss Hilda on the cheek, just under her chin, to pour out devotion lavishly, without stint. And she could tell from Hilda’s smile, her tiny gestures of tenderness, that her love was returned, and happiness filled her being. …
Mrs. Hunter brought them back to realities.
“Oh, there you are, little chickabiddies,” she cooed. “Come along, I’ve fixed a cute little table for you two where you can be to yourselves and where you won’t be bothered by us old folks.”
Hilda gave Mimi a fleeting, wry smile at the blundering condescension of the dowager-like hostess.