And just because Bland's playing hard luck is no reason why you need call him names.

Give the devil his due, anyway." "I just perfectly ache to do it!" cried Mary V.

"He wouldn't be talking you into all kinds of crazy things--" "Crazy because they don't happen to appeal to you," Johnny flung back.
"Oh, well, what's the use of talking?
You don't seem to get the right angle on things, is all." He busied himself with a cigarette, his face, that had been so boyishly eager while he told her his plan, gone gloomy with the self-pity of one who feels himself misunderstood.
Mary V had gone back to her hammock and was lying with one arm thrown up across the cushion, her face concealed behind it.

She, too, felt miserably misunderstood.

Flighty she was, spoiled and impulsive, but beneath it all she had her father's practical strain of hard sense.
Mary V had grown older in the past three days.