Harlan bit his lips and his eyes laughed. “I say, Dorothy,” he began, awkwardly; “I was rather a beast, wasn’t I?”
“Of course,” she returned, in a small, unnatural voice, still poking through the ruins. “I told you so, didn’t I?”
“I didn’t believe you at the time,” Harlan went on, eager to make amends, “but I do now.”
“That’s good.” Mrs. Carr’s tone was not at all reassuring.
There was an awkward pause, then Harlan, putting aside his obstinate pride, said the simple sentence which men of all ages have found it hardest to say—perhaps because it is the sign of utter masculine abasement. “I’m sorry, dear, will you forgive me?”
In a moment, she was in his arms. “It was partly my fault,” she admitted, generously, from the depths of his coat collar. “I think there must be something in the atmosphere of the house. We never quarrelled before.”
“And we never will again,” answered Harlan, confidently. “What have you been burning?”
“It was a mattress,” whispered Dorothy, much ashamed. “I tried to get a bed out, but it was too heavy.”
“You funny, funny girl! How did you ever get a mattress out, all alone?”
“Dragged it to an upper window and dumped it,” she explained, blushing, “then came down and dragged it some more. Claudius Tiberius didn’t like to have me do it.”