“Then let us send a message to Mr. Winton,” she suggested, playing the part of the capricious ingenue to the very upcast of a pair of mischievous eyes. “I'll write it and you may sign it.”
Adams stretched his complaisance the necessary additional inch and gave her a pencil and a pad of blanks. She wrote rapidly:
“Miss Carteret has been here admiring your drawings. She took one of
them away with her, and I couldn't stop her without being rude. You
shouldn't have done it without asking her permission. She says—”
“Oh, dear! I am making it awfully long. Does it cost so much a word?”
“No,” said Adams, not without an effort. He was beginning to be distinctly disappointed in Miss Virginia, and was inwardly wondering what piece of girlish frivolity he was expected to sign and send to his chief. Meanwhile she went on writing:
“—I am to tell you not to get into any fresh trouble—not to let
anyone else get you into trouble; by which I infer she means that
some attempt will be made to keep you from returning on the evening
train.”
“There, can you send all that?” she asked sweetly, giving the pad to her host.
Adams read the first part of the letter length telegram with inward groanings, but the generous purpose of it struck him like a whip-blow when he came to the thinly-veiled warning. Also it shamed him for his unworthy judgment of Virginia.
“I thank you very heartily, Miss Carteret,” he said humbly. “It shall be sent word for word.” Then, for the Reverend William's benefit: “Winton deserves all sorts of a snubbing for taking liberties with your portrait. I'll see he gets more when he comes back.”
Here the matter rested; and, having done what she conceived to be her charitable duty, Virginia was as anxious to get away as heart—the heart of a slightly bored Reverend Billy, for instance—could wish.