She blushed, hastily hid the locket in the palm of a hand, and stood up. “The brown pony?” she said.
“Books, gloves, cigars, ties,” enumerated Phil, “I don’t care what you bet. Come!”
“I like that brown pony. But—I shan’t bet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m betting about something that I know about, and you’re betting about something that you don’t know about. It would be taking advantage of you.”
“Is it that, or is it that you don’t want to admit that you’ve got the Genevieve epidemic?”
Two spots of scarlet brightened her cheeks. “I’ll wager a box of gloves with you against the pony that Genevieve’s picture isn’t in this locket; but on one condition: Grandmamma must look at the locket and tell you Yes or No.”
He shook his head. “I won’t agree to that. I’ve got to look at it myself.”
Sue also shook her head. “The bet is off,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Oh, come on!” he entreated. “I’ll never throw it up to you—honest.”