"I couldn't be."
"I don't see why."
"Because," she wavered, melted now, "because you are you, so strait-laced and—and strong. I've always been afraid to tell you just how things stood."
"Afraid, Amy? Afraid of me!" Jean felt keenly self-reproachful. "I am horribly sorry. Heaven knows I haven't meant to be unkind. I've found my own way too hard to want to make things worse for anybody else, you above all. You believe me, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Then be your old self, the Amy who made friends with me in Cottage No. 6. Who is he? Any one I know?"
"You've met him."
"I have! Where?"
Amy's color rose.
"Remember the night you struck New York?"