“And you call that luck!” groaned the president.
“Not that, dear. But mamma gave me a beautiful new wheel for keeping the whole thing from papa’s ears. And I sold the old one for enough to buy me a lovely new suit,” she added, triumphantly.
“I am glad somebody has had a stroke of luck,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “As for me, I’ve just had an object-lesson in the selfishness of this world, which is enough to make a misanthrope of me for life.”
“Mercy, has your grandmother decided to buy a wheel for herself instead of for you?” asked the blue-eyed girl.
“No. But you see it scratches the enamel to learn on a wheel—not to mention the other accidents which may befall it. Now, Nell’s bicycle is old, and I sent to borrow it to ride while I was taking my lessons. She actually refused it, unless I would lend her my new one while I had hers. Did you ever hear of such selfishness in your life?”
“Never,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “By the way, I suppose Jack Bittersweet will teach you to ride?”
“Why, yes; but how did you guess it?” There was a note of triumph in her voice.
“Oh, that was easy enough. He is always teaching somebody, you know. I told him the other day that I was afraid people would soon think him a professional.”
“B—but he told me that he only teaches people whom he—likes,” said the brown-eyed blonde, faintly.
“Why, of course, dear. But, Jack hasn’t a bit of discretion; he likes everything that wears petticoats, I verily believe.”