“Dislike her? I don’t dislike her, or like her either for that matter. I don’t care one way or the other. My friends have never been brought up in the backwoods, and don’t weep over dead cow-boys; but, of course, you’re at liberty to choose yours wherever you like.”
The sarcasm in Imogene’s tone was biting. Dorothy struggled with a strong desire to defend Virginia, and another as strong to keep in Imogene’s favor. Completely ashamed of herself, she said nothing, and Imogene mercifully changed the subject.
“Has our Dutch aristocrat returned your penknife?”
“Not yet. How about your hammer?”
“I haven’t seen it since she borrowed it, and I’ve ruined my nail-file trying to open the box of cake mother sent. She has her nerve! I found this on my desk this afternoon.”
She showed Dorothy a slip of paper on which was written in a heavy black hand:
“Have borrowed your ink for the afternoon.
“K. van R.”
“You don’t mean to say she came in when there was no one here, and just took it!” gasped Dorothy.