“No, thank you. At least, not yet. I,” accusingly, “am not accustomed to being cut, and if any of my friends cut me, I want to know why. That’s why I am here.”
She was her father’s daughter at that moment—straight, forceful.
“But,” said Bob eagerly, looking once more the way he used to, before he had got into this sobering business of manufacturer, “that’s just the point. You see I felt I had somehow forfeited my right to be one of your friends. I felt out of the pale.”
“Do you think you deserve to forfeit the right?”
“I—perhaps. I don’t know. I’m very confused about all that happened at your aunt’s place.”
Was that the shadow of a smile on the proud lips? Bob wasn’t looking at her. He dared not. He was talking to a drawing of his device.
“Perhaps you have heard of that confounded wager,” he went on. “I told you why I—I didn’t want to see you. At least, I think I did.”
“I have a vague impression of something of the kind,” said the girl.
“And there you are,” observed Bob helplessly. “It was an awful muddle, all right. You certainly punished me some, though. Honestly, if I offended you, you did get back good and hard.”
“Did I?” said she tentatively. “Is that a drawing of it on the wall?” She was looking at the device.