“You ought to know.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve deceived me, Dick. I heard you last night—I heard you talking to that girl they call Barbara Midhurst. You were speaking about a secret between you. If you like her better than you do me, I’m sure you’re welcome to her. I don’t care. I’m glad of it! I hope you’ll live long and both be happy. I’m going to die, anyhow!”
“And I hope it isn’t quite as serious as that, June,” he laughed. “I’m glad I know what was the matter. Yes, there is a secret between Barbara Midhurst and myself, but I give you my word that the secret concerns a third party. I discovered it by accident, and I’ve kept it for her sake and the sake of the third party. I don’t care for Barbara, June—that is, not as you mean. Don’t you believe me? Did I ever tell you a lie in my life? You’re the girl I care for more than all others in the world. Can’t you trust me? What’s the matter? You’re crying!”
“Oh, I’m all we-wet, and fuf-feel just per-perfectly horrid!” sobbed June.
“And you think I’m a two-faced scoundrel?”
“No-no I don’t. I tried to think that, but now I know I was fuf-foolish. I’m ashamed of myself, Dick. I can’t help crying, and I haven’t even got a dry handkerchief to wipe my eyes with.”
“Nor I,” he said, glancing around to make sure no one was in sight. “Never mind the handkerchief. Let this dry your tears.”
And behind the palms they kissed and the misunderstanding was at an end.
The next day the house party dispersed, Dick and his friends returning to Yale to resume active work in their baseball work.