Reliance drew a long breath. “Why—why, yes, I do,” she stammered. “She writes me every week.”
“Humph! Well, if she can write she hasn’t starved to death yet, I take it. How is she getting along?”
“Why, very well, I should say. She lives in Paris and—and she seems to be very happy.”
“Um-hum. All right. Good-by.”
She turned to go. Then she hesitated.
“Foster,” she faltered, “I—”
“Well? What?”
She shook her head. “I was wonderin’ if I ought to say it,” she confessed. “I guess I will. Foster, in every letter she writes me she asks about you. She wants to know how you are and what you are doin’ and—and everything. And in every one of those letters she asks if I think you would care to have her write you. She wants to do it, Foster. Indeed and indeed she does! Shall I tell her you said she might?”
His answer was prompt.
“I never begged anybody to write me yet,” he growled, defiantly. “And I am not beginning now. You and she can understand that.”