“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” admitted Betty grudgingly.
“And so, having once let me get a glimpse of her better self, and then having decided as usual that she wished she hadn’t, she needed a proof from me that I was worthy of her confidence. But I didn’t give it; I was busy and let the matter drop, and now I am the last person who could go to her. I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, dear!” said Betty forlornly.
“But isn’t it so? Don’t you agree with me?”
“I’m afraid I do.”
“Then go back and speak to her yourself, dear. She’s very fond of you, and I’m sure a little friendly hint from you is all that she needs.”
“No, I can’t speak to her either, Ethel. You wouldn’t suggest it if you knew how things are between us. But I see that you can’t. Thank you just as much. No, I mustn’t stop to-night.”
Betty walked down the elm-shaded street lost in thought. Eleanor had declaimed upon the foolishness of coming back on time after vacations through most of the dinner hour, and Betty understood as she had not that afternoon what Dorothy meant. But now her one hope had failed her; Ethel had shown good cause why she should not act as Eleanor’s adviser and Betty had no idea what to do next.
“Hello, Betty Wales! Christy and I thought we saw you up at the golf club this afternoon.” Nita Reese’s room overlooked the street and she was hanging out her front window.
“I was up there,” said Betty soberly, “but I had to come right back. I didn’t play at all.”