Jean laughed carelessly. “Well, you know now, and there’s no use crying over spilt milk. I used that argument about the publicity of the affair to the faculty, but it was no go. So the only thing for you to do is to help Eleanor write a nice, convincing note of resignation that I can read at the next meeting, when I announce my second appointment.”
“But Eleanor won’t ask my help,” said Betty decidedly, “and, besides, what can she say, after accepting all the congratulations, and having the supper?”
Jean laughed again. “I’m afraid you’re not a bit ingenious, Miss Wales,” she said rising to go, “but fortunately Eleanor is. Good-bye.”
When Betty handed Eleanor the note she read it through unconcernedly, unconcernedly tore it into bits as she talked, and spent the entire evening, apparently, in perfect contentment and utter idleness, strumming softly on her guitar.
The next morning Betty met Jean on the campus. “Did she tell you?” asked Jean.
Betty shook her head.
“I thought likely she hadn’t. Well, what do you suppose? She won’t resign. She says that there’s no real reason she can give, and that she’s now making it a rule to tell the truth; that I’m in a box, not she, and I may climb out of it as best as I can.”
“Did she really say that?” demanded Betty, a note of pleasure in her voice.
“Yes,” snapped Jean, “and since you’re so extremely cheerful over it, perhaps you can tell me what to do next.”
Betty stared at her blankly. “I forgot,” she said. “The girls mustn’t know. We must cover it up somehow.”