At her words, Brian involuntarily turned his head for a quick backward glance.
“There!” cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh, not at all like her normal, well-poised self. “You feel it, too!”
Brian forced a laugh in return: “It is the weather, I guess.” He tried to speak with casual ease. “The atmosphere is full of electricity this morning. We'll have a thunder-storm before night, probably.”
“And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up and down your room last night until almost morning?” she demanded abruptly, with her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the question at issue.
Brian retorted with a smile: “And how do you know that I tramped up and down my room last night?”
The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened as she answered, “I did not sleep very well either.”
“But, I surely did not make noise enough for you to hear in your room?” persisted Brian.
The color deepened still more in Betty Jo's checks, as she answered honestly: “I was not in my room when I heard you.” She paused, and when he only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, continued, in a hesitating manner quite unlike her matter-of-fact self: “When I could not sleep, and felt so as though there were somebody or something in the house that had no business here, I became afraid, and opened my door so I would not feel so much alone; and then I saw the light under the door of your room, and,—” she hesitated, but finished with a little air of defiance,—“and I went and listened outside your door to see if you were up.”
“Yes?” said Brian Kent, gently.
“And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you; but I thought I better not. It made me feel better, though, just to know that you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my room again.”