“Why, you haven’t told me anything, yet,” protested Ellen. “You’re the funniest girl, Fan! I don’t believe you know how to—really confide in anybody. If you’d tell me more how you feel about him, you wouldn’t care half so much.”
Fanny winced perceptibly. She could not bear to speak of the secret—which indeed appeared to be no secret—she strove daily to bury under a mountain of hard work, but which seemed possessed of mysterious powers of resurrection in the dark hours between sunset and sunrise.
“But there’s nothing to—to talk about, Ellen,” she said; and in spite of herself her voice sounded cold, almost menacing.
“Oh, very well, if you feel that way,” retorted Ellen. “But I can tell you one thing—or, I might tell you something; but I guess I won’t.”
“Please, Ellen,—if it’s about—”
“Well, it is.”
Fanny’s eyes pleaded hungrily with the naughty Ellen.
“You haven’t finished your account of that interesting pleasure excursion of Jim’s and Miss Orr’s,” said Ellen. “Isn’t it lovely Jim can drive her car? Is he going to be her regular chauffeur? And do you get an occasional joy-ride?”
“Of course not,” Fanny said indignantly. “Oh, Ellen, how can you go on like that! I’m sure you don’t care a bit about Jim or me, either.”
“I do!” declared Ellen. “I love you with all my heart, Fan; but I don’t know about Jim. I—I might have—you know; but if he’s crazy over that Orr girl, what’s the use? There are other men, just as good-looking as Jim Dodge and not half so sarcastic and disagreeable.”