Ellen tried to induce her to eat, and, failing,
decided that her refraining was not so much firmness in the two
meals-a-day system as fear of making a ``break.'' She felt
genuinely sorry for the silent girl growing moment by moment more
ill-at-ease. When the luncheon was about half over Selma said
abruptly to Jane:
``I must go now. I've stayed longer than I should.''
``Go?'' cried Jane. ``Why, we haven't begun to talk yet.''
``Another time,'' said Selma, pushing back her chair. ``No,
don't rise.'' And up she darted, smiling gayly round at the
company. ``Don't anybody disturb herself,'' she pleaded.
``It'll be useless, for I'll be gone.''
And she was as good as her word. Before any one quite realized
what she was about, she had escaped from the dining-room and from
the house. She almost ran across the lawn and into the woods.
There she drew a long breath noisily.
``Free!'' she cried, flinging out her arms. ``Oh--but it was
DREADFUL!''
Miss Hastings and Miss Clearwater had not been so penetrating as
they fancied. Embarrassment had nothing to do with the silence
that had taken possession of the associate editor of the New Day.
She was never self-conscious enough to be really shy. She
hastened to the office, meeting Victor Dorn in the street
doorway. She cried:
``Such an experience!''
``What now?'' said Victor. He was used to that phrase from the
ardent and impressionable Selma.
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