Frank tore at the handle and it came off. He uttered a short exclamation. Then, with infinite craft he fitted the handle in again, wrapped in yet one more scrap of the Sporting Times, and drew out the drawer. His face fell abruptly as he saw the handwriting.
"That can wait," he muttered, and chucked the letter face downwards on to the table.
"Frankie," said the girl again, still intent on her frying-pan.
"Well?"
"It's all my fault," she said in a low voice.
"Your fault! How do you make that out?"
"If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have taken the tin from George, and...."
"Oh, Lord!" said Frank, "if we once begin on that!... And if it hadn't been for George, he wouldn't have taken the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie Cooper, there wouldn't have been the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie's father's sister, she wouldn't have gone out with it. It's all Maggie's father's sister's fault, my dear! It's nothing to do with you."
The words were brisk enough, but the manner was very heavy. It was like repeating a lesson learned in childhood.
"That's all right," began Gertie again, "but—"