"Yes," said Betty; "as long as he isn't married...."
Then, rather frightened, I asked outright if she was really expecting to meet Ranny somewhere.
"How can I say? He is fond of the opera," she said in a very superior, grown-up way. "I might happen to see him some night in the throng——"
"In the throng! Betty," I said. "You have given Ranny Dallas your address."
"No," she said; "but I've given it to Tom Courtney."
Tom Courtney was Ranny's red-haired friend. "If you had watched," Betty said, "you would know that I was corresponding with Tom Courtney, too. Chiefly about Ranny. Tom Courtney is a splendid friend. He explains things much better than Ranny can. And then" (Betty's momentary annoyance vanished in laughter)—"then, too, Tom can spell—beautifully!"
I refused to laugh.
"I knew you'd be horrified," Betty said again, "and that is why I have to keep things from you. You are a sort of nun. You never feel as if all your blood had been whipped to a syllabub. And besides——"
"Besides?"
"I do like nice men. I don't mind their knowing. And I don't mean to be an old maid. You wouldn't care."