“It won’t if you scoff at it, and treat it lightly,” Marjorie retorted.
“Depend on the Screech Owl to start something. Screech Owl!” Muriel repeated the name with mock admiration. “What could be more appropriate? My nobility doesn’t extend to refraining from that fond title.”
“You are gossiping.” Lucy Warner pointed an accusing finger at Muriel.
“Never. Truth is truth, no matter where ’tis uttered. I’m merely saying to you girls what I should take great pleasure in saying to the Screech Owl herself. I long to tell her her right name.” Muriel accompanied her fervent declaration with a sweeping gesture.
“Perhaps vacation joys will make her forget the Rustic Romp and what she thinks she knows about Leslie,” Ronny made light prediction.
“Very optimistic, but not at all likely,” was Vera’s opinion.
“How did you answer Miss Crawford, Leila.” Marjorie had missed most of the gay exchange of raillery among her companions. Her brain was busy with the same problem that had invaded her thoughts on the last afternoon she and Leslie Cairns had been together on the Speedwell.
“I asked her a question in return for hers. I said: ‘Who told you that such a thing had happened?’ She tossed her head and said: ‘I prefer not to answer that question.’ Then I smiled at her with fine Celtic good humor, and said: ‘And I prefer not to answer yours.’ It was on the campus near the Bean holder that we met. She walked away in a miff. And I have not seen her since,” Leila ended genially.
“It’s too bad.” Marjorie stared at Leila with a troubled air.
“Now why should it be?” Leila demanded, smiling. “I have no admiration for Miss Crawford, nor never did have. She is too ready to believe unpleasant gossip.”