Quicksand
ceeded in investing it with so much incredulity.
“If you didn‘t have people, you wouldn‘t be living. Everybody has people, Miss Crane. Everybody.”
“I haven‘t, Mrs. Hayes-Rore.”
Mrs. Hayes-Rore screwed up her eyes. “Well, that‘s mighty mysterious, and I detest mysteries.” She shrugged, and into those eyes there now came with alarming quickness an accusing criticism.
“It isn‘t,” Helga said defensively, “a mystery. It‘s a fact and a mighty unpleasant one. Inconvenient too,” and she laughed a little, not wishing to cry.
Her tormentor, in sudden embarrassment, turned her sharp eyes to the window. She seemed intent on the miles of red clay sliding past. After a moment, however, she asked gently: “You wouldn‘t like to tell me about it, would you? It seems to bother you. And I‘m interested in girls.”
Annoyed, but still hanging, for the sake
85
