“Who has accused me of that?” demanded Miette, indignantly.
“Why,” stammered Dorothy. “I thought you knew—that is, I thought you understood that Nita brought the note to—”
“I understood it not at all,” declared the French girl, much excited. “Nobody told me and I cannot guess what such girls do.”
She had risen from her seat beside Dorothy, and stood before her now, her cheeks aflame and her eyes sparkling. Dorothy thought she looked wonderfully pretty, but she did not like her excited manner—the girl seemed ready to go into hysterics.
She rubbed her hands together and shrugged her shoulders, just as she did the night of the “crash” during the initiation.
“Now you must be calm,” suggested Dorothy. “You know we can never do anything important when we are excited. Just sit down again and we will talk it all over quietly.”
“There is not much to talk over,” declared Miette, dropping down beside Dorothy. “I simply wrote a note to Marie—she worked in the store—”
She stopped as if she had bitten her tongue! Her cheeks burned more scarlet than before. She glared at Dorothy as if the latter had actually stolen her secret.
“There!” she exclaimed finally. “Now I have told it—now you know—”
“What harm can there be in my knowing that you wrote a note to a girl who worked in a store?” asked Dorothy, whose turn it was to be surprised. “Surely you are not too proud to have friends who work for a living?”