“Let me see. Where was I? Oh, here. ‘I thought you were going to be silly and throw away your chances on some of the men who used to flirt with you. Archie Mickleham may not be a genius, but he’s a good fellow and a swell and rich; and he’s not a pauper, like Phil Meadows, or a snob like Charlie Dawson, or—’ shall I go on, Mr. Carter? No, I won’t. I didn’t see what it was.”
“Yes, you shall go on.”
“O, no, I can’t,” and she folded up the letter. “Then I will,” and I’m ashamed to say I snatched the letter. Miss Dolly jumped to her feet. I fled behind the table. She ran round. I dodged.
“‘Or’” I began to read.
“Stop!” cried she.
“‘Or a young spendthrift like that man—I forget his name—who you used to go on with at such a pace at Monte Carlo last winter.’”
“Stop!” she cried. “You must stop, Mr. Carter.”
So then I stopped. I folded the letter and handed it back to her. Her cheeks flushed red as she took it.
“I thought you were a gentleman,” said she, biting her lip.
“I was at Monte Carlo last winter myself,” said I.