"Yes, he belongs to the Phoenix Club, New York, if they haven't kicked him out. But what of that? I'm not going to write to him. I don't want him back, Heaven knows." There was a fighting note in Bertie's voice. He spoke as if prepared to resist to the uttermost any sudden attack upon his resolution.
But Dot attempted none; she abandoned the argument quite suddenly, and nestled against his breast. "Darling, don't let's talk about it any more! It's a subject upon which we can't agree. And I'm sorry I've been so horrid to you. I know it isn't my fault that we haven't quarrelled. Forgive me, dear, and keep on loving me. You do love me, don't you, Bertie?"
"Sweetheart!" he whispered, holding her closely.
She uttered a little muffled laugh. "That's my own boy! And I'm going to be so good, you'll hardly know me. I won't go out in the rain, and I won't do the Clothing Club accounts, and I won't overwork. And—and—I won't be cross, even if I do look and feel hideous. I'm going to be a perfect saint, Bertie."
"Sweetheart!" he said again.
She turned her face up against his neck. "Shall I tell you why?" she said, clinging to him with hands that trembled. "It's because if I let myself get cross-grained and ugly now, p'r'aps someone else—some day—will be cross-grained and ugly too. And I should never forgive myself for that. I should always feel it was my fault. Fancy if it turned out a shrew like me, Bertie! Wouldn't—wouldn't it be dreadful?"
She was half-laughing, half-crying, as she whispered the words. Bertie's arms held her so closely that she almost gasped for breath.
"My precious girl!" he said. "My own precious wife! Is it so? You know, I wondered."
She turned her lips quickly to his. There were tears on her cheeks though she was laughing.
"How bright of you, Bertie! You—you always get there sooner or later, don't you? And you're not cross with me any more? You don't think me very unreasonable about Nap?"