‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said shortly.
‘Yes, but it does matter! You promised to be my friend—and—you have been treating me abominably!’ said Connie, with flashing eyes.
Nora feebly defended herself, but was soon reduced to accept a pair of arms thrown round her, and a soft shoulder on which to rest an aching head.
‘I’m no good,’ she said, despairingly. ‘I give up—everything.’
‘That’s all right!’ Connie’s tone was extremely cheerful. ‘Which means, I hope, that you’ll give up that absurd copying in the Bodleian. You get about twopence-halfpenny for it, and it’ll cost you your first-class. How are you going to get a First I should like to know, with your head full of bills, and no sleep at nights!’
Nora flushed fiercely.
‘I want to earn my living—I mean to earn my living! And how do you know—after all’—she held Connie at arm’s length—‘that Mr. Sorell’s going to approve of what you’ve done? And Father won’t accept, unless he does.’
Connie laughed.
‘Mr. Sorell will do—exactly what pleases me. Mr. Sorell’—she began to search for a cigarette—‘Mr. Sorell is an angel.’
A silence. Connie looked up, rather surprised.