"Tom is my name," interposed Thomas Hornby, quietly; "so don't blame me for reading what's written to me, please."
"Will you answer me a question?" broke off Lucretia.
He nodded.
"Were you looking over my shoulder in the writing-room that day when I wrote that disgusting note?"
"On my honor, no," Thomas Hornby replied. "It was mental telepathy," he gayly told her. Then, mischievously, "I felt you writing my name, lady," he said.
"You're having great fun with me," remarked Lucretia. "Did you used to like to turn turtles on their backs when you were a small boy, and see them squirm, Mr. Hornby?"
He laughed outright at that.
"Let's not go out in the car," he broke off. Let's stay in, and talk!"
Lucretia couldn't help but glow at the tribute in the suggestion. It had been years since she had felt exhilaration like this.
Late that night, wrapped in her warm, unbeautiful wrapper, Lucretia, redolent of camphorated oil, sat among an array of croup kettles and bottles of medicine, and watched beside Bobbie.
"It was just a social call," she told herself
