“Yes, she would,” assented Austin slowly. “And that’s what I can’t make out—why she’s so different now.”
“I think it’s because she’s so really fair and straight,” said Max in a sober voice, which breathed chivalrous determination to believe in the absent Frances. “And if she knows all the time that she isn’t exactly fair to Jim, she won’t want to come out strong about ‘justice’ when other folks trip.”
Austin nodded his head in agreement. “That’s it! Besides, she’s a girl, and girls are cranky things; a fellow never knows quite how to take ’em.”
“Not a fellow’s own sister?” queried Max, with interest.
“Bless you, no,” replied Austin, shaking his head this time, and speaking with conviction. “Why, I could make out any other chap’s sister better than I can make out Frances. But of course,” he added, sitting very erect, “Frances isn’t a common girl. She’s not so understandable as the rest of the lot, even.”
“Do you know,” began Max seriously, “what she told me yesterday? She said she thought she’d have to give up being an Altruist!”
“No!” exclaimed Austin.
“She did! And I said: ‘Oh, Frances! don’t break up our club. It’s the first of our Woodend things which has gone on and been a success.’ And she said: ‘Of course it will go on, and far better without me.’ And I asked her why; and she said something, very low, about the nicest sort of girls—the girls who were the best Altruists—not caring for her as they used to do; and that they didn’t come so much to the meetings, and that she thought they would if she weren’t the leader.”
“Well,” said Austin, in a crestfallen tone, “fancy Frances chucking up her beloved Society! She trots about with the Mater, too, ever so much more than she used to do, and it’s a bad sign. Imagine Frances sitting in a drawing-room, wearing her best togs, when she might be playing hockey with us!”
“Yes—fancy!” echoed Max dismally.