But all the while her thoughts were concerned with the coming distasteful interview, and she kept rehearsing mentally her part in it.

She wished it were over--she wished she had never tried to get up a Belgian Relief concert--she wished she had not quarreled with Irene.

After all, disdainful silence would have been much more effective in meeting the slur upon Walter.

It was foolish and childish to fly out as she had done--well, she would be wiser in the future, but meanwhile a large and very unpalatable slice of humble pie had to be eaten, and Rilla Blythe was no fonder of that wholesome article of diet than the rest of us.
By sunset she was at the door of the Howard house--a pretentious abode, with white scroll-work round the eaves and an eruption of bay-windows on all its sides.

Mrs.Howard, a plump, voluble dame, met Rilla gushingly and left her in the parlour while she went to call Irene.
Rilla threw off her rain-coat and looked at herself critically in the mirror over the mantel.