Genevieve, only, had nothing to say. She did not, indeed, even glance toward Cordelia. With averted face she hurried through the corridor and out the street door alone. In the yard a quick step behind her overtook her, and she found herself looking into the flushed, agitated face of the new boy.
O. B. J. Holmes would not, at first sight, be called a good-looking youth. His face was freckled, and his nose was rather large. But his mouth was well-shaped, and his eyes were large and expressive. They looked into Genevieve's now with a gaze that was clear and honest and manly.
"Miss Genevieve, may I walk with you a little way, please?" he asked with disarming directness. "I want to speak to you."
"Why, of—of course," stammered Genevieve. Then she colored painfully: behind her she heard Tilly's laughing voice, followed by Alma's lower one, and Harold's.
"I wanted to thank you for what you did this morning," began O. B. J. Holmes, falling into step with her.
"Oh, that wasn't—wasn't anything," stammered Genevieve, nervously, still acutely conscious of the eyes that she knew were behind her.
The boy smiled a little wistfully.
"Perhaps not, to you," he answered; "but if you'd been named 'O Be Joyful' and had had to suffer for it as I have, you'd think it was something."
"You don't mean to say your name is 'O Be Joyful'!" gasped Genevieve.
He nodded, his face showing a deeper red.