Will you trust me?"
"Of course, I will," said the girl, quickly. "On just one condition,
Jeff. Think of her as if she were your own sister, and don't--don't----"
"Be 'as funny as I can'? No, I won't."
Evelyn observed Lucy all that day with understanding, and found herself
longing to warn the girl that her foolishness was about to meet with its
punishment. She noted with sorrow the strangely excited look in the
young eyes, the light, half-hysterical laugh, the changing colour in the
pretty face. Lucy's promise of beauty had never seemed to her so
characterless, or her words so empty of sense.
She found her in a corner of their room, reading a worn novel by a
certain author whose very name she had been taught to regard as a
synonym for vapidity and sentimentalism of the most highly flavoured
sort, and she could not keep back a quick exclamation at sight of it.
Lucy looked up with a frown and a flush.
"I suppose you think it's terrible to read novels," she said, pettishly
flirting the leaves. "Well, I don't."
"Dear, it's not 'novels' that I've been taught to despise, but the sort
of novel that writer writes.
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