“Tavia! How you talk! Ridiculous!” exclaimed Dorothy. “You talk like a heathen.”
“Am one when it comes to money matters,” groaned the girl. “I have got to marry money——”
“If Nat White were as poor as a church mouse, you’d marry him in a minute!”
“Oh—er—well,” sighed Tavia, “Nat is not going to ask me, I am afraid.”
“He would in a minute if you’d tell him about those Lance Petterby letters.”
“Don’t you dare tell him, Dorothy Dale!” exclaimed Tavia, almost in fear. “You must not. Now, promise.”
“I have promised,” her friend said gloomily.
“And see that you stick to it. I know,” said Tavia, “that I could bring Nat back to me by explaining. But there should be no need of explaining. He should know that—that—oh, well, what’s the use of talking! It’s all off!” and Tavia flounced around and buried her nose in the pillow.
Dorothy’s wits were at work, however. In the morning she “put a flea in Ned’s ear,” as Tavia would have said, and Ned hurried off to the telegraph office to send a day letter to his brother. Dorothy did not censor that telegraph despatch or this section of it would never have gone over the wire:
“Come back home and take a squint at the cowboy D. has picked out for herself.”