"Where's the difference? Where's the----?" She giggled. But something in the quality of her laughter disturbed. Louise frowned.
"I didn't say anything funny. You'll love your husband, I suppose, that you're always talking about having--and I'll stick to Miss Hartill. It's perfectly simple."
But Cynthia was still laughing. Louise grew irritable under her amused glances, and would have turned away, but Cynthia flung her arm about her.
Cynthia's eyes shone oddly. Louise moved uneasily, disconcerted by their expression.
"Hasn't any one told you? Why, with the books you've read----Haven't you read the Bible ever?"
"Of course!" Louise was indignant. "I've been right through--four times."
"And you've never noticed? Good Lord! That's all I read it for."
"I haven't an idea what you're driving at," said Louise. Cynthia was making her thoroughly uncomfortable.
Cynthia was flushed, laughing, pure devilry in her eyes. Her lips were pouted, her little teeth gleamed. She looked a child licking its lips over forbidden dainties. She had pulled Louise into her lap and her voice had dropped to a whisper.
"Shall I tell you? Would you like to know? You ought to--you're fourteen--it's absurd--not knowing about things--shall I tell you?"
Louise fidgeted. Cynthia's manner had aroused her curiosity, but none the less she was repelled. Why, she could not have said. She hesitated, aroused, yet half frightened.
"I'll tell you," said Cynthia lusciously.
With a sudden effort Louise freed herself from the encircling arm. She edged away from the elder girl, stammering a little.
"I don't think I want to know anything. It's awfully sweet of you. I'd rather--I always ask Daffy things. Do you mind?"
Cynthia, good-tempered as ever, laughed aloud.
"Lord, no! But what a little saint! Aren't you ever curious, Louise? All right! I won't tease. Have a candy?"
And Louise, eating chocolates, was not long in forgetting the conversation and all the curious discomfort it had aroused. If a leaf had fallen on the white garment of her innocence--a leaf from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil--she had brushed it aside, all unconscious, before it could leave a stain.
The spring term was nearly over, holidays and a trip to Italy deliciously near; yet Clare Hartill sat at breakfast and frowned over a neatly-written letter.