“Oh, Tavia! And she was so kind to you when you were sick.”
“Was she? Then she ought to keep it up, and leave my letters alone!”
“Well,” sighed Dorothy rising, “I must go for the mail at any rate.”
“And you won’t save my one little letter?”
“How could I?” Dorothy pleaded.
“Then if you do get it—see it among the others—couldn’t you leave it there? I will be able to walk down to the post office myself tomorrow.”
“But you couldn’t get the mail.”
“Oh, yes I could,” and Tavia tossed her head about defiantly.
Dorothy was certainly in a dilemma. But she was almost due at the post-office, and could not stay longer to argue, so, clapping on her hat, she bade Tavia good-bye for a short time.
“It palls on me,” Tavia told herself, as she again approached the glass and took up the cold cream jar. “Who would ever believe that I would stoop so low! To deceive my own darling Dorothy! And to make a fool of myself with this ‘mugging’ as Nat would say.”