"Please let me in, Zaly," she begged, "I just want to talk to you a little."
Still no reply, and then, after exhausting all other arguments, Patty said, "Won't you let me in for Phil's sake? He sent me."
That succeeded, and reluctantly Azalea unlocked the door.
"Don't talk to me, Patty," she pleaded. "I'm in the depths of despair, but you can't help me. Nobody can help me,—and I can't even help myself."
"Who made all this trouble for you?" inquired Patty, casually, her never failing tact instructing her that Azalea would answer that better than protestations of affection.
"I made it myself,—but that doesn't make it any easier to bear."
"Indeed it doesn't," Patty agreed. "But, never mind, Zaly, if you heaped up a mound of trouble, let me help you to pull it down again."
"No; you can't," and Azalea looked at her dully.
"Oh, come now, let me try. Is it about your father?"
Azalea fairly jumped. "What do you mean?"