"You'll like to come, won't you?" And Edgar regarded the other more than a trifle anxiously.
"I don't know. Look here, Edgar! What did your father mean the other day by saying I smoked, and why didn't you speak up for me? Had you made out to him that I had been smoking cigarettes with you that afternoon I was at the Rookery, when he and Aunt Janie were away?"
"No, on my honour I had not," was the emphatic response.
"Then, what did he mean?" Roger demanded. "He believed I had been smoking. Did you know he thought so?"
"I—I—"
"Oh, speak out!" cried Roger, greatly irritated; "don't stammer like a baby!"
"Well, don't get angry, then. You needn't look at me so—so furiously. I've done nothing to injure you. It was like this. Father found out I'd been smoking; at first I wouldn't own to it, but afterwards I did, and he was awfully angry. But it was a Sunday, and mother stood up for me, so there wasn't nearly such a row as I'd expected." Edgar paused for a minute, then continued with heightened colour. "Of course, father imagined, as you had been with me and there were several cigarettes gone from the case—I'd taken them; I thought he wouldn't notice—that you'd been smoking, too, and—and—"
"And you didn't tell him I hadn't?"
"No-o-o," Edgar was obliged to admit, "I—I didn't tell him one way or the other."
"Why didn't you?" Roger was actually shaking with anger, the colour had fled from his cheeks, and his eyes were alight with passion.