The reddish eyes disappeared as Genevieve laughed—musically, in the most approved Simpson manner. “Oh, several of the girls at the School are awfully poor,” she reminded. “I let them ride in my car. But”—significantly—“they have fine standing, Miss Simpson says. And they’ve never had any scandal.”
Vaguely Phœbe caught the inference. “Oh, yes; scandal,” she said, almost under her breath. “That would be awful.”
Genevieve reached to touch Phœbe’s arm condescendingly. “Don’t you care,” she counseled, “because I like you just the same.”
Phœbe fell back. Her face paled; her heart pounded. Scandal! and she was on the verge of knowing just what was meant. She thought of the prayers. She longed to know the worse. “Genevieve,” she whispered, “have I—what scandal?”
“It’s funny you don’t know,” marveled Genevieve.
“Oh, what is it? Please! Please!” Phœbe’s lips were trembling.
Genevieve, having postponed her informing to her own complete satisfaction, now saw that the moment was ripe for her climax. “Phœbe,” she began solemnly, “Miss Simpson doesn’t want you at our school because your mother’s in Reno.”
“Reno?” repeated Phœbe. Her face lighted joyously. Mother was in Reno! And if she were to carry out that plan to run away——! And after all, it was not the prayers!
“Nevada,” added Genevieve, with finality. The other’s relief irritated.
It was Phœbe’s turn to toss her head. “Nevada is good for my mother’s cough,” she declared.