“Yes.”
“And you needn't mind what he thinks.”
“Of course,” admitted Clara, thoughtfully.
“He will naturally despise you,” added Olive, “but I suppose he does that, now.”
Clara gave her friend as piercing a glance as her soft blue eyes could emit, and, detecting no sign of jesting in Olive's sober face, she answered haughtily, “I don't see what right Mr. Atherton has to despise me!”
“Oh, no! He must admire a girl who has behaved to him as you've done.”
Clara's hauteur collapsed, and she began to truckle to Olive. “If he were merely a business man, I shouldn't mind it; but knowing him socially, as I do, and as a—friend, and—an acquaintance, that way, I don't see how I can do it.”
“I wonder you didn't think of that before you accused him of fraud and peculation, and all those things.”
“I didn't accuse him of fraud and peculation!” cried Clara, indignantly.
“You said you didn't know what all you'd called him,” said Olive, with her hand on the door.