“Come now, Berty,” he replied, good-naturedly, “you needn’t be flinging my age up to me. I’m only six years older than you, anyway.”
“Well, that is an age.”
“How did you and Jimson fall out?” asked Tom, curiously. “I’d give considerable to know.”
“You’ll never know, now that I see you want to,” replied Berty, vigorously.
Tom meditatively chewed a piece of meadow-grass, then said, easily, “I spoke in the language of exaggeration. We all do it. Of course, I guess that you had a quarrel. Jimson was dancing about you morning, noon, and night, till he took a fancy to Selina. Then you were jealous.”
“It wasn’t that at all,” said Berty, unguardedly. “I wouldn’t be so silly. He broke his word about a package of silk.”
“Oh,” replied Tom, coolly, “that was the silk Selina was so delighted to get. He sent a boy to Boston for it.”
“Yes, and the arrangement, the very last arrangement, was for me to present it when it came. Several days went by; and I thought it queer I didn’t hear from him. Then I met him in the street. ‘Couldn’t the boy match the silk?’ I asked.
“‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘he brought it fast enough.’