“Well, come then. Is it about anyone in—London?” asked May smiling, while a little colour rose to her cheek.
“No,” said Jean gravely. “I am going to ask you about Willie Calderwood. And indeed I think you might have spoken more plainly to me long ago.”
May laughed.
“I have often wondered that you have never spoken plainly to me.”
“Have you? Well, being your elder sister, perhaps I ought to have done so. I did not like to speak, since you did not.”
“Just so. And I did not like to speak to you for the same reason.”
“Well, we will speak now. May,” said she softly, laying her hand on her sister’s shoulder, “tell me just how it is between Willie and you.”
“I don’t understand you, Jean. There is nothing in the world between Willie and me.”
“May, have you—changed your mind? Don’t you care for him any longer?”
“I don’t know what you mean. As to caring for him—of course I care for him—in a way. But, Jean, it is not me that Willie Calderwood cares for. He has said nothing to me that he might not have said to—almost any one in Portie.”