“I don’t remember,” David admitted, after thought. It was obvious that she wanted him to remember it, but, stupidly enough, he seemed to have no recollection of it whatever.
“I think it must really have been to Jim Rucker,” Gabrielle added, innocently. “It began ‘Dear Jim.’”
The blood came to David’s face and he laughed confusedly.
“I—did I scribble something to Jim on the margin? I remember that we sent the plans back and forth a good deal,” he said, in a sort of helpless appeal.
“I’ll show it to you,” Gabrielle answered, suddenly. She put her hand into her pocket and brought out a curled slip of paper that had been cut from the stiff oiled sheet of an architect’s plans. “Here, David,” she invited him. “Read it with me.”
And she flattened it upon the old dial and glanced at him over her shoulder.
David, hardly knowing what he did, let his eyes fall upon the pencilled words. He read:
Dear Jim:
No letter, but a message about her in one from Sylvia. Tell Mary I’m sorry I cut her dinner party!
It was signed with David’s own square, firm, unmistakable “D.”