“I always meant to tell you that you made the prettiest gypsy in the world, the nice, romantic Romany kind, you know, with a handsome lover and everything as spuzzy as gypsies could have.”
“You’re the kind of a friend to have, Betty Lee,” laughingly Kathryn remarked; “but I always wanted to have golden hair, like yours, and be a goddess-like creature, all pink and white.”
“Isn’t it funny—and ever since I read a story about a beautiful creature with black, black hair and flashy dark eyes—I longed to look like that, so entrancingly fascinating!”
“Probably that is the way girls are, want to look like something else. Well, I don’t know that I’d mind being called Gypsy. It is a cute nickname. Oh, did you know that Carolyn is coming back today or tomorrow?”
“Gypsy”—and Betty looked wickedly at Kathryn as she used the term. “Gypsy,” Betty repeated, “I have had just one letter from Carolyn all this summer. I answered it and wrote pages; but not one word more have I had. If you have had a late letter I’m terribly jealous.”
“Good!” returned Kathryn. Then her face grew a little sober. “No, Betty, I’ve not heard from Carolyn either, except a card at the first of the summer. But I may as well confess one more secret. I’ve been telling you everything I know all summer, you know.”
At this point a slender brown hand and slim brown arm reached over after Betty’s almost equally tanned head. “It’s this and I’m ashamed of it, too. I’ve been worrying for fear when Carolyn comes we can’t be such friends as we have been this summer.”
“Why not, Kathryn Allen!” Betty squeezed the hand which had slipped inside of her grasp and sat a little closer on the step of the porch. “Is that why you said ‘good,’ when I said I’d be jealous?”
“Yes. Because I’m jealous myself.”
“Jealousy is a very bad—um—quality.”