Dorothy took a step forward and put her arms around Beatrice.
“Unhappy!” she stammered; “oh, I’m wretched—so wretched. No, no; I mean I’m happy—so very happy. You don’t understand.”
But Beatrice released herself and looked anxiously into her friend’s face.
“What has happened, Dorothy?” she inquired with concern. “You are ill! You are all white and red by turns.”
“No, no; you don’t understand!”
“Understand, eh!” quoth Beatrice, the light of a sudden intelligence coming into her eyes. “Oh! I see—I see. There now! Just to think of it! As papa would say, I’ve been blundering again.”
“See! You see what?”
“But you distinctly told me,” came the somewhat irrelevant answer, “that you didn’t care for him!”
“Why, of course—of course not; you silly, silly goose! You don’t understand—you don’t understand——”
And by way of adding to Beatrice’s comprehension of the situation, Dorothy suddenly drew her to her heart, sank her head upon her shoulder, and, with great broken sobs following fast upon one another, wept as if her heart would break.