“My Garry Knapp,” said Dorothy, blushing.
“Yes, my dear. Don’t dodge the fact. We all seem to be suddenly grown up. We are shucking our shells of maidenhood like crabs——”
“Tavia! Horrors! Don’t!” begged Dorothy.
“Don’t like my metaphor, dear?” chuckled Tavia. But she was grim again in a moment, continuing: “No use dodging the fact, I repeat. You were interested in that man from the beginning. Now, weren’t you?”
“Ye—es, Tavia,” admitted her friend.
“And I should have seen that you were. I ought to have known, when you were put out with him because of that shopgirl, that for that very reason you were more interested in Garry Knapp than in any other fellow who ever shined up to you——”
“Tavia! How can you?”
“Huh! Just as e-asy,” responded her friend, with a wicked twinkle in her eye and mimicking Garry Knapp’s manner of speaking. “Now, listen!” she hurried on. “That night I took dinner with him alone—the evening you had the—er—headache and went to bed. ’Member?”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Dorothy, nodding.
“He just pumped me about you,” said Tavia. “And I was just foolish enough to tell him all about your money—how rich your folks were and all that.”