The Girl Next Door (Crimson Romance) Read Online Free Page A

never heard such a silly statement. You’re as skinny as a rail. Honey, you make me laugh!”
    “Well, go ahead and laugh,” Betsy flared. “But I still don’t have to eat the darned waffle!”
    She pushed back her chair and stood up. She muttered something, and was gone, running up the stairs to her room. Edith still sat at the table, her face white and tired.
    A little later, as Betsy came downstairs, still wearing the faded blue and white cotton dress, Edith said:
    “Aren’t you going to the station to meet Peter?”
    “Of course,” returned Betsy curtly.
    “You haven’t much time to dress.”
    “I
am
dressed. What difference does it make what I wear or how I look?” Betsy burst out. “Pete won’t know the difference.”
    And then she was gone, hurrying out through the open door and down the walk before Edith could speak… .
    There was always a little group of loafers around the station, as in all small towns where the daily passing of big-city trains is an event Betsy ignored them as she paced the platform, straining her eyes along the track for the first sign of smoke that would herald the approach of the train bringing Peter.
    A few minutes before train-time, a neat dark green sedan stopped at the edge of the station yard. Mrs. Marshall, trim and smart in her suit of printed silk, a hat made mostly of white violets perched becomingly on her carefully waved hair, got out. As she came along the platform, she was pulling on white gloves and there was a cluster of white violets pinned to her jacket.
    Watching her, Betsy suddenly felt frowsy, in her last summer’s cotton dress, her mahogany colored curls guiltless of a hat, socks and scuffed saddle-shoes on her feet. She flushed as she went to meet Mrs. Marshall, who greeted her affectionately and carefully veiled her look of disapproval.
    “Well, Betsy, our long wait is over. Our boy is coming home. Won’t it be grand to see him again?”
    “It would be even grander if he could see us,” muttered Betsy, and caught her lower lip hard between her teeth.
    “Betsy, you must pull yourself together.” Mrs. Marshall said it quietly, but there was a note of sternness in her voice. “We’ve got to treat Pete exactly as though nothing has happened. We mustn’t break down. He needs our comfort and our cheer — not our tears!”
    Betsy tossed her head and said huskily, “Of course — ” But her words were cut off by the sound of a train whistle.
    Far up the line, where the railroad tracks seemed to run together, there was smoke, and then the train came rushing in. Betsy clenched her hands tightly, and held her breath. Mrs. Marshall gave her a glance that was almost hostile, and then turned as the train slid to a halt.
    Mrs. Marshall walked a few steps away from Betsy, who stood as though rooted to the spot. The conductor swung down and a young man appeared at the top of the steps — a tall young man much thinner than Betsy had been prepared to see. He was still in uniform, with the bars of a lieutenant on his shoulder, and his thin face seemed paler because of the dark glasses that shielded his eyes.
    “Hello, there, son!” Mrs. Marshall called out.
    Her cry seemed to Betsy to be unbearably gay, but the young man’s face brightened. He seemed unaware of the conductor’s gentle touch that guided him as he stepped down to the platform, and caught his mother in his arms.
    “Home at last, Mom. It’s swell to see you!” Peter’s voice rang with such boyish delight that Betsy could scarcely keep back the tears.
    They clung together for a long moment. Mrs. Marshall smiled at Peter, though her face was white and taut.
    Still clinging to his hand, she said — and Betsy marvelled at her poise — ”There’s someone else here to greet you, darling.”
    “Oh, Mom, not a committee!” Peter groaned. “You promised — ”
    “A committee of two, darling. Just Betsy and me.” Mrs. Marshall turned to Betsy, a stern command in her eyes.
    “Betsy!” Peter