"Let me see. Where was I? Oh, here. 'I thought you were going
to be silly and throw away your chances on some of the men who
used to flirt with you. Archie Mickleham may not be a genius,
but he's a good fellow and a swell and rich; and he's not a
pauper, like Phil Meadows, or a snob like Charlie Dawson,
or--' shall I go on, Mr. Carter? No, I won't. I didn't see what
it was."
"Yes, you shall go on."
"O, no, I can't," and she folded up the letter. "Then I will,"
and I'm ashamed to say I snatched the letter. Miss Dolly jumped
to her feet. I fled behind the table. She ran round. I dodged.
"'Or'" I began to read.
"Stop!" cried she.
" 'Or a young spendthrift like that man--I forget his name--who
you used to go on with at such a pace at Monte Carlo last
winter.'"
"Stop!" she cried. "You must stop, Mr. Carter."
So then I stopped. I folded the letter and handed it back to
her. Her cheeks flushed red as she took it.
"I thought you were a gentleman," said she, biting her lip.
"I was at Monte Carlo last winter myself," said I.
"Lord Mickleham," said the butler, throwing open the door.
RETRIBUTION
In future I am going to be careful what I do. I am also--and
this is by no means less important--going to be very careful what
Miss Dolly Foster does.
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