“Of course, you know, dear boy,” explained Jack Herring, “anything I could do for a sister of yours—”
“I know, dear boy,” replied the Babe; “I always felt it.”
“Say no more about it,” urged Jack Herring.
“She couldn’t quite make out that letter of yours this morning,” continued the Babe, ignoring Jack’s request. “She’s afraid you think her ungrateful.”
“It seemed to me, on reflection,” explained Jack Herring, “that on one or two little matters she may have misunderstood me. As I wrote her, there are days when I don’t seem altogether to quite know what I’m doing.”
“Rather awkward,” thought the Babe.
“It is,” agreed Jack Herring. “Yesterday was one of them.”
“She tells me you were most kind to her,” the Babe reassured him. “She thought at first it was a little uncivil, your refusing to lend her any money. But as I put it to her—”
“It was silly of me,” interrupted Jack. “I see that now. I went round this morning meaning to make it all right. But she was gone, and Mrs. Postwhistle seemed to think I had better leave things as they were. I blame myself exceedingly.”
“My dear boy, don’t blame yourself for anything. You acted nobly,” the Babe told him. “She’s coming here to call for me this evening on purpose to thank you.”