"You do not seem to have sought opportunity to inquire,"—very cool and dignified now.
"Pardon me. Three times this week I have asked for a walk, and you have had previous engagements."
She has torn to bits and thrown away the card that was in her hand. Now she is tugging at the bunch of bell buttons, each graven with the monogram of some cadet friend, that hangs as usual by its tiny golden chain. She wants to say that he has found speedy consolation in the society of "that other girl" of whom Mr. Werrick spoke, but not for the world would she seem jealous.
"You could have seen me this afternoon, had there been any matters you wished explained," she says. "I presume you were more agreeably occupied."
"I find no delight in formal visits," he answers, quietly; "but my sister wished to return calls and asked me to show her about the post."
Then it was his sister. Not "that other girl!" Still she must not let him see it makes her glad. She needs a pretext for her wrath. She must make him feel it in some way. This is not at all in accordance with the mental private rehearsals she has been having. There is still that direful matter of Will's report for "shouting from window of barracks," and "Miss Mischief's" equally direful report of Mr. Stanley's remarks thereon.
"I thought you were a loyal friend of Willy's," she says, turning suddenly upon him.
"I was—and am," he answers simply.
"And yet I'm told you said it was all his own fault, and that you yourself would have given him the report that so nearly 'found him on demerit.' A report on suspicion, too," she adds, with scorn in her tone.
Mr. Stanley is silent a moment.