“You did it,” she accused, still holding me up at the point of that pink and leveled digit.
“Guilty!” I pleaded. “What did I do, when, how, and to whom?”
“You brought those two ex-infants together. And now look at the poor things!”
“Are they engaged?” I cried, in high hope.
“Engaged! Have you seen the morning papers?”
She waved a modeling tool at a heap of print in the corner and relieved her feelings by giving Granny Glynn a vicious whack on the nose with the implement. I caught up the top paper and read:—
VARICK FLAYS TRENT AS A FAKER AND SELF-SEEKER AT SENATE HEARING
“Oh, that's only politics,” I said, with an attempt at easiness.
“Putnam Varick himself turned Mr. Trent out of the house when he went to see Paula,” said the Bonnie Lassie, a bright spot of color burning in each soft cheek. “Is that politics?”
“That,” said I, “is war. What is Paula going to do about it?”