“Why, everybody. Joyce Fulsom told me her father said so; and he ought to know. Do you suppose—?”
“Do I suppose what?”
Jim’s tone was almost savage.
“What’s the matter with you, Jim?”
Fanny’s sweet voice conveyed impatience, almost reproach. It was as if she had said to her brother, “You know how I must feel, and yet you are cross with me.”
Jim glanced down at her, sudden relenting in his heart.
“I was just thinking it’s pretty hard lines for both of us,” said he. “If we were rich and could come speeding into town in a snappy auto, our clothes in the latest style, I guess things would be different. There’s no use talking, Fan; there’s mighty little chance for our sort. And if there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s what folks call sympathy.”
“So do I!” cried Fanny. “I simply can’t bear it to know that people are saying behind my back, ‘There’s poor Fanny Dodge; I wonder—’ Then they squeeze your hand, and gaze at you and sigh. Even mother—I want you to tell mother I’m not—that it isn’t true—I can’t talk to her, Jim.”
“I’ll put her wise,” said Jim gruffly.
After a pause, during which both walked faster than before, he said hurriedly, as if the words broke loose: