“Then you really think I ought not to send anything to Keefe? Not even this terrible drawing of a cat? Not even to make him laugh and—and hold me in contempt?”
She laughed at that.
“Not for any reason at all,” she said.
“Then, Aunt Lorena, let me send word just once more—only once. It will be the end.”
“The end?”
“I will never direct another envelope of any sort to him till he writes to me. If he has given his word, he will not do that until—”
“Until?” Her eyebrows were Gothic arches again.
“Until we find, beyond all question, that we cannot live apart.”
“Piffle,” she said. “One can live without anyone. It is a mere question of making up one’s mind.”
I sent Keefe the terrible little picture of the cat.