“Good idea!” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “then, he would think he had mistaken some one else for you. You could pretend to be very much offended at that, and so snatch victory from the very jaws of defeat.”
“So I thought. But his reply—oh, I knew I should die of rage! It said: ‘My dear Miss Marion: Pray pardon me for quite overlooking my engagement with you on Saturday afternoon. Yes, I know you were at home—for I saw you at the window as I passed!’ And as long as I live, I shall never be able to tell that man what I really think of him!”
“Never mind, you can tell everybody else—and that is almost as satisfying,” said the president; “more so, perhaps; for then you need not hear what he has to say in reply.”
“I am so glad to see you looking so well to-day, Dorothy, dear,” whispered the girl with the dimple in her chin; “it pleases me to see that you still take an interest in dress, and—”
“Pray, why shouldn’t I take an interest in dress? Really, Emily Marshmallow, you are the queerest girl I ever did see! Here, you see me trying to conceal my poor broken heart with smiles, and then you begrudge me the slight pleasure I take in appearing decently clad. And when I mean to go and teach in a free kindergarten—well, next week, and wear a black gown with white collar and cuffs for the rest of my natural life!”
“I’m sure I don’t mean to begrudge you anything, dear. And Jack says that he is sure that if you would just see him, he could explain the whole thing—”
“Of course, you have been on his side all along. That is the way of the world; everybody sympathizes with the one who is in fault, and—”
“He said that he was hurrying to catch up with you on the street yesterday, and that Frances—this is what he says, dear—not knowing what he was doing, called him to rescue her hat, which had blown away. By the time he had done it, you were out of sight. You see, Dorothy, he seems to fancy that you are—well, rather nice to Clarence, and—”
“Oh, I thought Clarence was coming. So I am rather nice to the one human being who really understands me, am I? Well, you may just tell Jack Bittersweet that I shall keep on being nice to him as long as I choose—and he might know me well enough by this time to be sure that I shall keep my word!”
“Dear me, Dorothy, you surely are not crying, are you?” cried the brown-eyed blonde. “Do tell me what is wrong; perhaps I can help you.”