“Certainly,” she replied.
He did not produce his familiar gold-plated cigarette case. He lighted a cigar. Then, having accepted the chair she indicated, he leaned back and put a half-inch of ash on the tip of the fine Havana before he started.
“Madge, I’ve been an awful cad, haven’t I?”
“Yes, Gordon,” was the girl’s candid answer. “You have!”
“I know! I’m sorry!”
“You’re sorry! And how long have you been sorry?”
“Dad came down here to see you, didn’t he—a few months ago?”
“I’ll be frank. He did.”
“Yes. He went back to Springfield. And do you know what he did?”
“What did he do?”