"I am sorry you can't help us, Irene, but since you cannot we must do
the best we can."
Now this did not suit Irene at all. She desired exceedingly to sing at
that concert, and all her hesitations were merely by way of enhancing
the boon of her final consent. Besides, she really wanted to be friends
with Rilla again. Rilla's whole-hearted, ungrudging adoration had been
very sweet incense to her. And Ingleside was a very charming house to
visit, especially when a handsome college student like Walter was home.
She stopped looking at Rilla's feet.
"Rilla, darling, don't be so abrupt. I really want to help you, if I can
manage it. Just sit down and let's talk it over."
"I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to be home soon--Jims has to be settled
for the night, you know."
"Oh, yes--the baby you are bringing up by the book. It's perfectly
sweet of you to do it when you hate children so. How cross you were just
because I kissed him! But we'll forget all that and be chums again,
won't we? Now, about the concert--I dare say I can run into town on the
morning train after my dress, and out again on the afternoon one in
plenty of time for the concert, if you'll ask Miss Oliver to play for
me. I couldn't--she's so dreadfully haughty and supercilious that she
simply paralyses poor little me."
Rilla did not waste time or breath defending Miss Oliver. She coolly
thanked Irene, who had suddenly become very amiable and gushing, and got
away.
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