“I say, Lydia, I’ll tell you a secret. Mind, now, you’re not to say a word to anyone, because I promised not to tell ... but I know I can trust you?”
An interrogative turn to that last sentence.
“Yes, truly you can, Ethel. Tell me.”
“Well, promise you won’t tell. Not even if you’re asked?”
“Cross my heart——” in the glib, accustomed formula.
“Well, then, Daisy Butcher and May Holt have had a row. You know what frightful friends they’ve been ever since the beginning of the term? Well, it’s all over, and they’ve quarrelled. Only don’t ever say I said so because Edith told me, and I said I wouldn’t say because it was May Holt herself who told her, and she made her promise not to say. I wouldn’t say a word myself, only I really thought you ought to know, sitting next to May in class and everything. I say, do you like May Holt?”
Lydia, who thought May Holt common and stupid, was for a moment tempted to say so. Then, innate caution and a distrust of her companion’s garrulity restrained her.
“She’s all right,” she said vaguely. “I thought you were rather friends with her?”
“Not now,” said Ethel hastily. “If the quarrel comes out and there’s any taking sides, I shall be on Daisy’s side. I think May Holt’s been awfully mean. I simply can’t bear mean ways. I’m like that, you know.”
Thus Ethel’s confidences, similar to scores of others, all ending in an exposition of the speaker’s view of her own personal traits of character.