“Honey, you're such a hopeless little fool, you're delicious! You know that I love you—don't you?”
The pretty lips quivered.
“Yes.”
“Could I possibly ask you to do a thing that would harm a single brown hair of your head?”
The firm hand of the older girl touched a rebellious lock with tenderness.
“Of course not, from your point of view, Jane dear,” the stubborn lips persisted. “But you see it's not my point of view. You're older than I——”
Jane smiled.
“Hoity toity, Miss! I'm just twenty-eight and you're twenty-four. Age is not measured by calendars these days.”
“I didn't mean that,” the girl apologized. “But you're an artist. You're established and distinguished. You belong to a different world.”
Jane Anderson laid her hand softly on her friend's.