“John! John, what do you mean? How can you speak so to me! Would you go away now that—that—”
“You wouldn't miss me so much, I should imagine. Cousin Percy will be here, and you and he seem to be very confidential and friendly, to say the least.”
Gertrude gasped. She was beginning to understand, or imagined that she was. She laughed merrily.
“John! Why, John!” she cried. “You're not jealous! YOU!”
John looked rather foolish. “No-o,” he admitted doubtfully, “I'm not jealous. Of course I'm not, but—”
“But what? Don't you trust me, John? Don't you?”
“Of course I do. You know I do, but—See here, Gertie, you said you were going to explain—to explain something or other. Do it, then. I think I am entitled to an explanation.”
But Gertrude's merriment had vanished. Her eyes flashed.
“I shall not explain,” she said. “You don't trust me. I can see you don't.”
“I do. I do, Gertie, really; but—but—”