"I know he hasn't," admitted Bess, with a chuckle. "And for a very good reason. We wouldn't let him."
Nan stared for a minute. Then something surprisingly like tears filled her eyes and she turned quickly to the window.
"I don't think you are nice," she said in a low voice. "If Walter has been any nicer to me than he has to any one else, I surely haven't noticed it. And now you've gone and spoiled everything. I won't want to go anywhere with him now just because I will be afraid you girls are saying silly things. And Walter's such awfully good fun!" The last was very much in the nature of a wail, and Bess's heart, which was never very hard at any time, softened and she slipped over to Nan's chair and put an arm about her chum.
"Move over," she commanded. "It's lucky neither of us is very fat or we couldn't both sit in one chair. That's right," as Nan obediently "moved over" but still kept her face to the window. "Now say you forgive me for being such an old bear. After all, honey," and she patted Nan's shoulder soothingly, "I suppose it isn't your fault if Walter likes you best."
Nan's shoulder moved impatiently.
"But he doesn't," she insisted, staring out of the window. "It isn't so."
"All right," agreed Bess soothingly. But it was lucky Nan could not see the twinkle in her eye. "Have it your own way, Nan. Only stop turning your back to me. It isn't polite. And, oh!" she added, with a little sigh, "I'm hungry."
At this sudden and very unromantic change in the subject Nan laughed. And as laughter and ill-temper never go hand in hand, it was not long before Nan had forgotten all about Walter—almost.
She produced the lunch box, and for once Bess was too ravenously hungry to protest at the "commonness" of it, and they set to at its delicious contents with a will.