She spoke, of course, of the contents of poor Miss Clare’s basket, now turned out upon a newspaper. She approached it, and picked up one or two sheets.
“It seems to me scarcely justifiable to waste a sheet merely for writing ‘Dear Bir,’” said she, “or a wrong figure in the date. Errors like that can easily be—is this the missing letter, by any chance?”
It was the letter, and the check as well, torn into fragments.
“Oh, I didn’t know!” cried Miss Clare. “I’m so awfully sorry! I must have taken it by accident and torn it up with—with some other things. I’m so sorry!”
But my exasperation was too great to be melted even by tears in those incomparable eyes.
“You ought to be sorry!” I said, and so on.
No use recounting the rest of my bad-tempered outburst. I paid for it later in very genuine regret.
VII
It was probably due to ill temper, but it was attributed to my wonderful business foresight that I did not ship those goods. Mr. Reddiman sent for me on Monday morning and praised my wisdom, good sense, and judgment. That customer was to be dropped.
This praise did not make me happy, but quite the contrary. I knew I didn’t deserve it—in this instance, that is. I was already very remorseful on the score of Miss Clare. I remembered things of which I hadn’t been aware at the time—her white face, her quivering lip, her wide, tearful eyes. She had gone away, after listening to every word I said, and she had not returned.