“It’s more than they mean you to have, any way.”
“One oughtn’t to say that.” The tone had a quaint sternness, charming to the ear, yet with a great power of affront for the soul of Milly.
“Miss Lawrence,” said that democrat, “you annoy me. If you go on like this before mother she’ll shake you. The trouble with you”—a rather fierce recourse to a cigarette—“is that you are a bit of a prig. You must admit that you are a bit of a prig, aren’t you now?”
“More than a bit of one,” sighed Mary. And then the light of humor broke over her perplexity. In the eyes of Milly this was her great saving clause; and in spite of an ever-deepening annoyance with her friend for the hay she was making of such amazingly brilliant prospects, she could not help laughing at the comic look of her now.
“You are much too clever to take things so seriously,” said Milly. “You are not the least bit of a prig in anything else, and that’s why you made me so angry. Be sensible and follow your luck. Jack should know far better than you. Besides, if you didn’t mean to keep your word, why did you give it?”
This was a facer, as the candid Milly intended it to be.
“Because I was a fool.” At the moment that seemed the only possible answer.
II
The argument had not gone farther when a rather strident “coo-ee” ascending from the pavement below found its way through the open window.
“Diana, you are wanted.” The impulsive Milly ran on to the little balcony to wave a hand of welcome to a young man in the street.