“Certainly. Otherwise, you will admit he couldn’t take them again.”
“That family,” asserted the major seriously, “must be made of cast-iron, with clockwork stomachs.”
Patsy gave one of her low, musical laughs.
“I think I would like Bermuda,” she said. “Anyhow, whatever pleases Uncle John will please me, so long as we get away from New York.”
“Why, ye female traitor!” cried the major; and added, for Uncle John’s benefit: “New York is admitted by men of discretion to be the modern Garden of Eden. It’s the one desideratum of—”
Here the door opened abruptly and Beth came in. Her cheeks were glowing red from contact with the wind and her dark tailor-suit glistened with tiny drops left by the melted snow. In her mittened hand she waved a letter.
“From Louise, Patsy!” she exclaimed, tossing it toward her cousin; “but don’t you dare read it till I’ve changed my things.”
Then she disappeared into an inner room and Patsy, disregarding the injunction, caught up the epistle and tore open the envelope.
Uncle John refilled his pipe and looked at Patsy’s tense face inquiringly. The major stiffened, but could not wholly repress his curiosity. After a moment he said:
“All well, Patsy?”