They had played tennis.

They had shared the tandem tricycle.

Again came the thrill of joy, and close at its heels the cold questionings of conscience.

Why this joy?
What was the real source of it?
Was it that deep down, somewhere pushed back in the black recesses of the soul, there was the thought lurking that if Charles prospered in his wooing then Harold Denver would still be free?
How mean, how unmaidenly, how unsisterly the thought! She crushed it down and thrust it aside, but still it would push up its wicked little head.

She crimsoned with shame at her own baseness, as she turned once more to her companion.
"I really do not know," she said.
"She is not engaged ?" "Not that I know of." "You speak hesitatingly." "Because I am not sure.