“Then they know each other?” said Bess.
“I presume so. But that did not keep him from believing me,” Nan said. “He was nice.”
“Well,” whispered Bess. “He doesn’t look nice.” She began to giggle. “Did you ever see such glasses? He looks like an owl.”
“I suppose he is a learned man,” Nan returned, “so the look of wisdom becomes him.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Bess. “That does not follow. What sort of professor did you say he is?”
“I didn’t say. I only heard his name.”
“What’s that?” asked Bess, with growing curiosity.
“Professor Krenner,” repeated Nan.
“Why—ee!” squealed Bess, suddenly.
She opened her hand-bag, which was quite commodious, and began frantically to dig into its contents. A dollar bill, two lozenges, a handkerchief, part of a paper of chewing gum, an elastic band, a receipt for “freckle balm,” a carved horsechestnut that her brother Billy had given her for a keepsake at parting, two bits of silk she had tried to match and could not, a tiny piece of sealing-wax, a much-creased letter (the last Nan had written her from Pine Camp), a funny little carved piece of ivory with a toothpick inside, a silver thimble (for Bess was sometimes domestic), a pair of cuticle scissors in a case, a visiting card, a strip of torn lace (likewise saved to “match”), a big, pearl button off her coat, a safety pin, and a molasses “kiss,” fortunately wrapped in waxed paper, fell to the floor.