“It's rather behind his back,” I said.
“Oh, never mind him,” she cried, “He's been behind my back long enough. If he never did no worse things behind my back than I do behind his, he wouldn't have cause to grumble. You read me what it says.”
Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began—“'My dear Alfred.'”
“I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza's dear Alfred.” She laughed. “How do you say it in French? Eliza?”
I told her, and she repeated the name with great contempt—Elise.
“Go on,” she said. “You're not reading.”
So I began—“'I have been thinking of you sometimes—have you been thinking of me?'”
“Of several others as well, beside her, I'll wager,” said Mrs. Goyte.
“Probably not,” said I, and continued. “'A dear little baby was born here a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling little brother into my arms——'”
“I'll bet it's his,” cried Mrs. Goyte.