teach you to be more careful. Well, let’s hike.”
Accordingly they hiked. But to “hike” along a deep-rutted, pebbly lane, in frail, silver-hued slippers with high French heels, is not an exhilarating performance. Rilla managed to limp and totter along until they reached the harbour road; but she could go no further in those detestable slippers. The pain simply could not be borne. She took them and her dear silk stockings off and started barefoot. That was not pleasant either; her feet were very tender and the pebbles and ruts of the road hurt them. Her blistered heels smarted. But physical pain was almost forgotten in the sting of her humiliation. This was a nice predicament! If Kenneth Ford could see her now, limping along like a little girl with a stone bruise! Oh, what a horrid way for her lovely party to end! She just had to cry—it was too terrible. Nobody cared for her—nobody bothered about her at all. Well, if she caught cold from walking home barefoot on a dew-wet road and went into a decline perhaps they would be sorry. She furtively wiped her tears away with her scarf—handkerchiefs seemed to have vanished like shoes!—but she could not help sniffling. Worse and worse!
“You've got a cold, I see,” said Mary. “You ought to have known you would, sitting down in the wind on those rocks. Your mother won't let you out again in a hurry I can tell you. It’s certainly been something of a party. The Lewisons know how to do things, I’ll say that for them, though Hazel Lewison is no choice of mine. My, how black she looked when she saw you dancing with Ken Ford. And so
