No more coaxing, concert or no concert. She
got up, boot and all.

"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. She was very thankful the interview was over. But she knew
now that she and Irene could never be the friends they had been.
Friendly, yes--but friends, no. Nor did she wish it. All winter she had
felt under her other and more serious worries, a little feeling of
regret for her lost chum. Now it was suddenly gone. Irene was not as
Mrs. Elliott would say, of the race that knew Joseph. Rilla did not say
or think that she had outgrown Irene. Had the thought occurred to her
she would have considered it absurd when she was not yet seventeen and
Irene was twenty. But it was the truth. Irene was just what she had
been a year ago--just what she would always be. Rilla Blythe's nature
in that year had changed and matured and deepened. She found herself
seeing through Irene with a disconcerting clearness--discerning under
all her superficial sweetness, her pettiness, her vindictiveness, her
insincerity, her essential cheapness. Irene had l