“No,” said Betty, “I’m not. I’ve studied logic and argument and I ought to know better than to depend on circumstantial evidence. I’m very, very sorry.”
Jean looked at her keenly. “I suppose you and Eleanor have discussed this affair together. What did she think?”
“I haven’t mentioned it to her since the afternoon we were at Miss Carter’s, and she doesn’t know that I wrote you. That day we both felt the same—that is, we didn’t know what to think. If you don’t mind, I should like to tell her that it’s all right.”
“Why in the world should you bother to do that?” asked Jean curiously.
“Because she’ll be so glad to know, and also because I think it’s no more than fair to all of us. You did act very queerly that afternoon, Jean.”
“Oh, did I?” said Jean oddly. “You have a queer idea of fairness. You won’t work for me when I’ve put you on a committee for that express purpose; but no matter how disagreeable I am to you about it, you won’t take a good chance to pay up, and you won’t let Eleanor take hers.”
“Let Eleanor take hers?” repeated Betty wonderingly.
“Yes, her chance to pay up her score. She owes me a long one. You know a good many of the items. Why shouldn’t she pay me back now that she has a good chance? You haven’t forgotten Mary Brooks’s rumor, have you? Eleanor could start one about this condition business without half trying.”
“Well, she won’t,” Betty assured her promptly. “She wouldn’t think of mentioning such a thing to anybody. But as long as we both misunderstood, I’m going to tell her that it’s all right. Good-bye, Jean, and please excuse me for being so hasty.”
“Certainly,” said Jean, and Betty wondered, as she ran down-stairs, whether she had only imagined that Jean’s voice shook.