“Did you—do you—want—this?” Dorothy stammered, again holding the volume out toward Tavia.
A deep flush instantly came over Tavia’s face. Dorothy was watching her with a look—a look at once pleading and full of sadness.
Tavia put out her hand for the book.
“Oh, that funny little leaflet,” she tried to say as if it were a joke. “I suppose I might just as well take it, but it’s full of the worst sort of nonsense. Let me show you—”
“Oh, no; don’t bother,” replied Dorothy, rather stiffly. “But that seems a queer sort of a book to take home from boarding school. Hadn’t you better destroy it, as you say it is all nonsense?”
The red covers of the pamphlet fluttered in Tavia’s hand. The flush on her cheeks threatened to match the hue of the book and told its own guilty story.
“Oh, I might as well take it with me,” and Tavia’s words sounded rather a lame excuse. “It will be amusing to read on the train.”
“Oh, Tavia!” Dorothy burst into tears. “Won’t you give up—those stage notions? Do, please!” and she clasped her arms about her chum, weeping bitterly.
“Oh, don’t! Dorothy don’t cry so!” begged Tavia, stroking the yellow head. “I will give it up—all up! Yes, Dorothy, dear, listen! Look here!” and at that Dorothy raised her head.
With her hands free Tavia tore the little red book into shreds and tossed them into the waste basket.