Louie had not much in common with Richenda—save perhaps (she loved little cuts like this at herself) that both of their fathers were literary. But she had had that rather brutal snub on her conscience. That had come out next.
"You do study too hard," she had said, "and—I say, Earle—I'm sorry for what I said that night—you know—when I snapped at you and said you'd your medal to get. Will you forget that?"
The next moment she had almost wished she hadn't said it, Earle's hungry gratitude had shown so.
"It wasn't your fault a bit," the red-haired girl had broken out impulsively. "It was all mine. I ought to have minded my own business. But I was so—so——"
"Well, try sleeping up here," Louie had cut her short. "It's jolly."
But Richenda had gone on. "I was stupid," she had murmured.
"I don't know that you were. You see how it is."
"Oh, I was, I was——"
"Well, as I tell you, I don't think much of my mother's lot."
"Ah, you can say so," Richenda had replied, shaking her head. Then, as Louie had thrown down her mattress, "You don't mean to say you undress here?" she had asked.