Amory’s golden eyes seemed to dance with mirth. Of course that accidental discovery had forced Dorothy’s hand beautifully. Dorothy was pleading with her as earnestly as if she had just been seen, not “canoodling” under a counter (that Amory believed was the word used in such cases), but lifted up on a plinth, in a heroic pose, with an archangel by her side, grouped with their faces towards the east or in whatever quarter the sun of Feminism might be expected to rise.... Amory had not even to say anything. All she needed to do was to stand smiling at dear old Dot and to watch her grow redder and redder. Obviously there was no need to accuse Dorothy when Dorothy was accusing herself.
In another moment, too, Dorothy was defending herself. Her eyes, in the surrounding flush of colour, seemed bluer than ever. And in jumping straight at Amory’s thought she skipped a stage.
“I don’t care anyway,” she blurted out. “Some things are understandable, but you and Cosimo—well, who’s to make head or tail of you? You’re always together, early and late, sometimes in your place and sometimes in his—of course I understand, dear, but really I don’t see how you could blame people who didn’t if—if——”
Already Amory had drawn herself up to her full five foot against the redwood counter and had tossed back the bright nasturtium of her head.
“If what?” she asked, the brook-brown eyes looking full into Dorothy’s blue ones.
“Well, if they draw their own conclusions, if you must know,” Dorothy blurted out.
As a wet cloth wipes chalk from a blackboard, so the smile had gone from Amory’s face. Most decidedly she wasn’t going to stand this—at any rate not from Dorothy.
“Oh!” she said. “What people? And what conclusions?”
“Well, people do. You can’t expect to have no conclusions drawn but your own.”
“You mean conclusions about me and Cosimo?”