Bewildered, he read the lines, which he had scarcely sensed as he hastily glanced them over before sending.
“Send back this tender token
And let us never wed.”
Patty had sent it! Had returned his “tender token!”
“Should your love be dead”—was he, then, to infer that Patty’s love was dead? His Patty! Never, in a million years! If ever a girl was true blue, that girl was Patty Fairfield,—his own Patty Blossom! There could be no two opinions about that!
With a sudden jerk, he picked up the telephone and called for New York.
It took a long time to get the connection, and Captain Farnsworth grew more and more impatient. He did not storm at the operator, that was not his way. He patiently waited “just a minute,” till scores of minutes flew by, and at last he heard Jane’s voice.
No, Miss Patty was not at home; she would be home about six. He would call up again? Very well. Good-bye.
Farnsworth strode up and down his room. It was only half-past three, he would call her about half-past six. Meantime—he must work. But the big man couldn’t settle himself to work. The thing was so inexplicable, so disturbing. Had Patty meant it for a joke? Had she meant to tease him? If so it was a bit of bad taste,—and Patty was never guilty of bad taste. He couldn’t understand it at all.
He tried to make out his reports, and of course, he succeeded in doing so, but it was a process greatly interrupted by long periods of distracted thought.