“Maybe you had a guilty conscience,” suggested Ethel.
“I guess most people have,” answered Ruth, “unless they’re nuns or ministers, or something like that.”
“Maybe they have, too,” said Ethel, as she left the room.
The conversation brought Ruth back to her dilemma. It recalled to her again, vividly, that dreadful sensation of terror that had overwhelmed her in the water. Ethel had said she was never afraid of anything! She smiled bitterly. Probably no girl in the school had ever been so frightened, so terrified to the very depths of her soul as she had been. But she would not risk a second experience. She dreaded the consequences of her confession; but she dreaded to a much greater degree, the consequences of the omission of that confession. She had made up her mind—she would not change it; she would tell Marjorie that night!
As they were dressing for dinner, she announced to Ethel her intention of spending the night with Marjorie. “I’ll get Miss Allen’s permission,” she added.
Ethel looked at Ruth suspiciously. “There must be some reason,” she thought, “for this sudden desire for Marjorie’s company.” But her suppositions were far from the truth: she attributed the attraction to the other girl’s brother.
After supper Ruth gathered her books and her toilet articles and started for Marjorie’s room. She found two or three other girls visiting her friend, and for some time had no chance to talk with her alone. Finally they all left. Ruth opened her book; but she could not study.
“You know I said I had something to tell you, Marj,” she said slowly, with her eyes fastened to the pattern of the rug. “It’s a confession!”
Marjorie drew down the corners of her mouth, in her effort to keep from smiling. The incident of the crochet had seemed big at the time, but now it appeared as only a trifle. “Maybe I know already,” she suggested.
“About your filet, you mean?”