"I've liked it too," said Betty.
"And it's awfully jolly," he went on, "to feel that you've forgiven me"—the speech suddenly became difficult,—"at least I mean to say—" he ended lamely.
"It's I who ought to be forgiven," said Betty. "I'm very glad I met you. I've enjoyed our talk ever so much."
Vernon spent an empty evening, and waylaid Betty as she left her class next day.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't help it. I suddenly felt I wanted something different. So I dined at a new place."
"Alone?" said Vernon.
"No," said Betty with her chin in the air.
Vernon digested, as best he might, his first mouthful of jealousy—real downright sickening jealousy. The sensation astonished him so much that he lacked the courage to dissect it.
"Will you dine with me to-night?" was all he found to say.
"With pleasure," said Betty. But it was not with pleasure that she dined. There was something between her and Vernon. Both felt it, and both attributed it to the same cause.