Genevieve frowned thoughtfully.
"Why, I don't know—I hadn't thought," she answered. "But I reckon perhaps I like him. He talked quite a little, and he seemed rather nice, I think—just frank and folksy, you know. Yes, I think I like him. I think we'll all like him."
"Oh, of course," agreed Harold without enthusiasm, getting suddenly to his feet. "Well, I suppose we must be going."
"Yes, of course," sighed Genevieve, glancing down at her little blue-enamel watch; "but it is nice here!"
The homeward walk was somewhat of a silent one. Harold was unusually quiet, and Genevieve was wondering just how and when peace and happiness were to reign once more in the Hexagon Club. She was wondering, too, if ever she could be just the same to Tilly—unless Tilly had first something to say to her.
As it happened, Genevieve's questions were answered, in a way, before she slept; for, after she had gone up to bed that night, there came a ring at the doorbell, followed, a moment later, by a tap at her door.
"It do be a note for you, Miss Genevieve," explained Nancy.
"A note—for me?"
"Yes, Miss; from Miss Tilly, I think. She's down at the door with her brother."
Genevieve did not answer. Her eyes were devouring the note.