"But, pardon me," said the Admiral, "do either of you find it impossible to forgive me?"
"On the contrary," replied Phil, "it is impossible to see where you were to blame. Trixy herself took the letter to you and asked you to finish it, so you couldn't help reading it. Neither could you help supposing it to be what she thought it, her own letter, for it began 'Dear Old Papa.'"
"But," persisted the Admiral, "I was guilty, shamefully so, that in my absent-mindedness I took it from my pocket at the club, to sketch upon."
"Just as I frequently use letters to figure upon," said Phil.
"Thank you—thank you. And poor Jermyn, in making his own sketch, and knowing, of course, the subject of conversation, looked at the written portion, supposing it to be something pertinent to the subject."
"Quite naturally, and each of you afterward had a lot of trouble which he didn't in the least deserve."
"I don't see," said Trif, "that anyone is to blame but I. The experience teaches me never again to leave a letter unfinished."
"Thank you, my dear," said Phil. "You see, Admiral, that your loss is to be my gain. Hereafter I'm not to be disappointed when longing for letters."
"What letters, papa?" asked Trixy from the sitting-room, where she was conducting a spelling lesson for dolls.