“What is always your fault?” she asked him but tremulously and stepping back a little.
“Our scraps, Tavia. Our big scrap. I know I ought not to have questioned you about that old letter. Oh, hang it, Tavia! don’t you see just how sorry and ashamed I am?” he cried boyishly, putting out both gloved hands to her.
“I—I know this isn’t just the way to tell you—or the place. But my heart just aches because of that scrap, Tavia. I don’t care how many letters you have from other people. I know there’s nothing out of the way in them. I was just jealous—and—and mean——”
“Anybody tell you why Lance Petterby was writing to me?” put in Tavia sternly.
“No. Of course not. Hang Lance Petterby, anyway——”
“Oh, that would be too bad. His wife would feel dreadfully if Lance were hung.”
“What!”
“I knew you were still jealous of poor Lance,” Tavia shot in, wagging her head. “And that word proves it.”
“I don’t care. I said what I meant before I knew he was married. Is he?” gasped Nat.
“Very much so. They’ve got a baby girl and I’m its godmother. Octavia Susan Petterby.”