Phillip was looking at her very, very ardently and Betty dropped her dark-brown eyes and studied her score-card.
“I think you’re——” But there he stopped again. He didn’t dare.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” asked Betty in apparent surprise. She darted a glance at him and straightway decided not to press the subject. There are more fitting places than a crowded grand stand for hearing certain things.
“I’ll—I’ll tell you some day,” answered Phillip softly.
“O-oh!” murmured Betty. “I suppose, then, I shall have to wait, shan’t I?” she asked cheerfully. Phillip wished she had exhibited a less philosophic spirit.
“Oh, I daresay you don’t care very much what I think,” he said rather aggrievedly. Betty shook her head and for the hundredth time pushed a lock of pale brown hair from her face.
“But I do, of course,” she answered gravely. “I like people to think—well of me, and especially Everett’s friends.”
“Oh,” said Phillip. Then, with elaborate carelessness, “I suppose he has lots of friends, hasn’t he?”
“M-m, yes, a good many, I guess.”
“And—er—do they all—that is——”