"Would be tenantless! No doubt! And if this supposititious individual did turn up—you'd care for him, of course, a great deal more than you care for—"
Bee laughed a little. "I shouldn't think you could compare the two sorts of feeling. I shall always care for you, no matter what else happens. But I don't see the use of planning so far ahead."
Amy was busily thinking. "Somebody or other is at the bottom of this," she cogitated. "Who can it be? Let me think—Bee has not been her usual self since—since—that visit to her aunts! I know! There were two house-parties while she was there, and she saw no end of people. And—yes, she did mention one name several times—a great pet of the old ladies! I remember! He was there nearly as long as Bee. What was his name?"
"So you can't compare the two feelings!" she remarked aloud. "Which means that you know both, my dear! Ah, now you've given yourself away, you transparent person! Come—you may as well 'fess! Who is the objectionable individual?"
"You are talking nonsense again!"
"I'm not so sure! Let me think—whom have you been seeing lately? Wasn't there a very delightful person at your aunts' house—yes, you certainly spoke of somebody two or three times, and said he was nice. Which from you is high praise. What is the man's name?"
Bee was thankful for the darkness. She wished now that she had not been so foolish as to differ from Amy. Why had she not fallen in with her friend's mood, and allowed her to expatiate as long as she liked on that "sweet little home," which in Bee's eyes looked so far from attractive? It would have been wiser not to risk awakening her suspicions.
"A great many nice people were in the house. Amy, look at that gleam of light on the snow—just dying away."
"I'm more interested in the lights and shades of human beings. I suppose he didn't actually propose."
Bee stood up, and her tone held a touch of gentle dignity.