“He has not behaved according to my idea of a gentleman, the few times that I have been unfortunate enough to encounter him,” Virginia retorted.
“You are the only one who says so, then.” Here the feminine got the better of Anne's prudence, and she added. “I saw you waltz with him once, Jinny Carvel, and I am sure you never enjoyed a dance as much in your life.”
Virginia blushed purple.
“Anne Brinsmade!” she cried. “You may have your ball, and your Yankees, all of them you want. But I shan't come. How I wish I had never seen that horrid Stephen Brice! Then you would never have insulted me.”
Virginia rose and snatched her riding-whip. This was too much for Anne. She threw her arms around her friend without more ado.
“Don't quarrel with me, Jinny,” she said tearfully. “I couldn't bear it. He—Mr. Brice is not coming, I am sure.”
Virginia disengaged herself.
“He is not coming?”
“No,” said Anne. “You asked me if he was invited. And I was going on to tell you that he could not come.”
She stopped, and stared at Virginia in bewilderment. That young lady, instead of beaming, had turned her back. She stood flicking her whip at the window, gazing out over the trees, down the slope to the river. Miss Russell might have interpreted these things. Simple Anne!