He nodded. "Just before I went to Boston.—It's nothing serious, but I'm not exactly in a position to influence her until we have made it up."
"Then why don't you make it up?" Gladys demanded. "You would think you two were children."
"We are children. I'm ready to make it up any time, but I don't want to start it by finding fault with her recent conduct. It would hardly be conducive to the makeup, do you think?"
"The idea of Stephanie and you having a misunderstanding!" she exclaimed. "You ought to be sent back to the nursery—you overgrown infants."
"Granted again," he agreed.
"Whose fault was it?"
"Both, I imagine, to be accurate."
"Do you mind telling me what it was about?"
"No—I don't mind telling you, Gladys. It was about Porshinger. I cautioned Stephanie about letting him show her attention. She—well, one thing led to another and—we quarrelled. I had to leave town the following morning. I wrote to her from Boston; I was there a week, and she never replied to the letter."