“Think about whom, my dear?” Tavia asked saucily. “That Garry Knapp, I bet.”
“I wouldn’t bet,” sighed Dorothy. “It isn’t ladylike.”
“Oh—de-ah—me!” groaned Tavia. “You are thinking of him just the same.”
“I happened to be just now,” admitted Dorothy, and without blushing this time.
“No! were you really?” demanded Tavia, eagerly. “Isn’t it funny he doesn’t write?”
“No. Not at all.”
“But you’d think he would write and thank you for your letter if nothing more,” urged the argumentative Tavia.
“No,” said Dorothy again.
“Why not?”
“Because Mr. Knapp never got my letter,” Dorothy said, opening her bureau drawer and pulling the letter out from under some things laid there. “See. It was returned to-day.”