“Come off!” cried Lise, in angry bravado. “Do you think I'm going to let you butt into this? I guess you've got enough to do to look out for your own business.”
Janet produced a pencil from her bag, and going to the table tore off a piece of the paper in which had been wrapped the candy box.
“Give me the address,” she insisted.
“Say, what are you going to do?”
“I want to know where you are, in case anything happens to you.”
“Anything happens! What do you mean?” Janet's words had frightened Lise, the withdrawal of Janet's opposition bewildered her. But above all, she was cowed by the sudden change in Janet herself, by the attitude of steely determination eloquent of an animus persons of Lise's type are incapable of feeling, and which to them is therefore incomprehensible. “Nothing's going to happen to me,” she whined. “The place is all right—he'd be scared to send me there if it wasn't. It costs something, too. Say, you ain't going to tell 'em at home?” she cried with a fresh access of alarm.
“If you do as I say, I won't tell anybody,” Janet replied, in that odd, impersonal tone her voice had acquired. “You must write me as soon—as soon as it is over. Do you understand?”
“Honest to God I will,” Lise assured her.
“And you mustn't come back to a house like this.”
“Where'll I go?” Lise asked.