Cecille laughed. It was a woeful, croaking attempt at flippancy.
"Oh, the old line of stuff!" She had never before employed Felicity's brand of slang. It came unpleasantly from her tongue. "The wages of sin and all that sort of thing."
That brought Felicity across the room until she stood, hands bracketed on hips, above her.
"Don't you worry about me, Cele," she said slowly. "Don't you nor any one else spend any pennies buying extras, expecting to strike news of my violent and untimely end. Safety First; that's my maiden name. I let Dunham drive thirty-five when he's sober. When he isn't, I walk. And I'm going to be that careful about deep water that I'll bathe always under a shower. Don't you worry about me." She paused soberly.
"It's you," she stated, "I'm worried about."
It was Felicity who displayed feeling at the end.
She stood quite a while staring down at the other girl's bright hair. Then with an air of definite purpose she drew up a chair for herself.
"I don't get you," she mused. "You're a queer kid.
". . . From the country?"
"I suppose so," Cecille admitted. "I didn't use to think so. I used to think we were quite—"