He tried not to listen. He hurried on with this killing that appealed to him as necessary.
"Remember the day in Freshman year, or before, wasn't it, when you recognized Sylvia Planter's bulldog? It was her dog. She had given him away—to me, because she had set him on me, and instead of biting he had licked my face. So she said to take him away because she could never bear to see him again."
Betty's bewilderment grew. She spoke gropingly.
"I guessed there had been something unusual between you and the Planters. What difference does it make? Why do you tell me now? Anything as old as that makes no difference."
"But it does," he blurted out. "I know you too well now not to tell you."
"But you and Lambert are good friends. You dance with Sylvia."
"And she," he said with a harsh laugh, "still calls me an impertinent servant."
Betty started. She drew a little away.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Just that," he said, softly.