"She cries every night," said Jill. "I can tell by the look of her eyes in the morning."
"She doesn't look half as woebegone over it as you do," I said.
"If I had her reason for looking woebegone I wouldn't look it either," said Jill.
I asked her to explain her meaning, but she only said that little boys couldn't understand those things.
Things went on like this for another week. Then they reached—so Jill says—a climax. If Jill knows what that means I don't. But Pinky Carewe was the climax. Pinky's name is James, but Jill and I always called him Pinky because we couldn't bear him. He took to calling at Owlwood and one evening he took Aunt Tommy out driving. Then Jill came to me.
"Something has got to be done," she said resolutely. "I am not going to have Pinky Carewe for an Uncle Tommy and that is all there is about it. You must go straight to Dick and tell him the truth about the New York man."
I looked at Jill to see if she were in earnest. When I saw that she was I said, "I wouldn't take all the gems of Golconda and go and tell Dick that I'd been hoaxing him. You can do it yourself, Jill Gordon."
"You didn't tell him anything that wasn't true," said Jill.
"I don't know how a minister might look upon it," I said. "Anyway, I won't go."
"Then I suppose I've got to," said Jill very dolefully.