“I used to know some Girl Scouts,” she said, more as if she were talking to herself than to her companion, “but I can’t remember their names now. If they come to me, I’ll tell them to you, so you can ask your friend, when you write, whether she knows them.”
“But I never write to her,” said John, softly.
“Why not?” asked Dorothy, in amazement.
“Well, she promised to spend part of her vacation at some resort with mother and me, and she suddenly changed her mind, left me out of the question, and went out on a ranch instead. But it wasn’t just that—I didn’t blame her a bit for liking that better—only she didn’t take the trouble to explain, even after her plans were made. She simply waited for me to find out through somebody else—and then she practically laughed at my chagrin!”
“Oh, no!” protested Dorothy. “You misunderstood her! If she’s the kind of girl you’ve been telling me about, she couldn’t do that. She was waiting for a special opportunity to tell you all about it.”
“I wonder!” mused John. “I wish I believed that. But she has never written!”
“Naturally—if you haven’t! Girls don’t write first.”
John was silent for a moment; that aspect of the situation had never occurred to him.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, finally. “Do you think I ought to write, Dorothy?”
“I do!” replied the girl emphatically, so absorbed in her thought that she had not noticed his use of her first name.