Patsy regarded the stepmother reproachfully. “And you never told me a word,” she said, with an air of deep injury. “I’ve been here two hours!”
“There was a good deal to talk about,” demurred the stepmother, soberly. “You were telling me, you know.”
“Yes—yes, of course.” Patsy’s injury transferred its object to the primary interest. “Timothy, I’ve left Warren.”
“That was nice of you,” commented Timothy. “Stay as long as you can.” He looked at his sister’s pretty hair contentedly; it curled over the ears like Doromea’s.
“But you don’t understand——” Patsy was seldom impatient with Timothy; she tried to remember that he was a writer. Then, too, they had been chums together always. “You don’t understand. I’ve left him forever. I’m not going to Washington with him. He—he insulted me; he called me a——”
Timothy uncurled himself in his interest. “Yes,” he encouraged. “What did he call you?”
“A—a t-tomboy!” Patsy’s lips quivered past control. “And his mother was there and Laura Hastings, a girl who was staying with me—and a perfectly horrid gossip, Timothy! Oh, he was a beast, that’s all. I’m sure,” tearfully, “I can’t think what you all ever let me marry him for!”
Timothy glanced over the auburn head at the stepmother. The stepmother glanced at Timothy. But neither of them smiled.
“I have never had anything against marriage,” said Timothy, mildly. “I have even persuaded one person to get over her prejudice against it. Perhaps I am wrong—if so, you can win the eternal credit of convincing me. And meanwhile, why not come with me to select an engagement present? We can argue as we go along, you know.”
It was not an unattractive proposition. Patsy brightened. “You must wait for me to change,” she warned, jumping up. “This frock’s a wreck. But I brought five trunks. I thought,” doubtfully, “that as long as I was leaving for good, I had better take everything with me.”