John laughed. “Don't talk nonsense,” he said curtly.
“No, I won't. But—er—what are you thinkin' about?”
“Nothing. Humph! I can't understand—”
“Neither could I. That's why I wrote you. You see why I wrote you, don't you, John?”
“Yes—yes, I see why you wrote me; but—but I can't see why she didn't. She hasn't written me a word of all this.”
And then the captain, in his anxiety to explain, made another indiscreet remark.
“Well,” he observed, “I suppose likely she was afraid you might think that, now she had money—more money than she ever had before, I mean—and was in a different, a higher-toned crowd than she had ever been, that—that—well, that she was likin' that crowd better than the old one. She might have thought that, you know, mightn't she?”
Mr. Doane did not answer. Daniel had made a pretty thorough mess of it.
“Of course,” went on the captain, “as far as Cousin Percy is concerned—”
John stirred uneasily. “Cousin Percy be hanged!” he snapped. “That's enough of this foolishness. Let's change the subject. How is Nate Bangs getting on with the store at home?”