"Yes, I did. He wrote to me. He asked me to answer. He was terribly sorry."
"Sorry for what?" asked Dee.
"For—for acting that way. He seemed to think he'd hurt my feelings or something. I told him it was just as much my fault as his."
"Did you, little Pat?" Her mother leaned forward to look into the queer, defiant, chivalrous little face. "Perhaps you're older than I thought. But I shouldn't write any more, if I were you."
"I won't."
Mona went out, followed by her youngest. In the hallway, Pat gave her mother a light, familiar, shy pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for standing by me," she said awkwardly.
"Did I stand by you?" returned Mona. "I wonder if I stand by you enough."
Inside the room, Dee mused with a thoughtful, frowning face.
"Think of the Scrub!" she muttered.
"What of her?" asked Constance.