after breakfast over the dullest morning paper in the city before setting forth to his down-town fly-trap. He had become quite fond of Nevada, finding in her much of his dead brother’s quiet independence and unsuspicious frankness.
A maid brought in a note for Miss Nevada Warren.
“A messenger-boy delivered it at the door, please,” she said. “He’s waiting for an answer.”
Nevada, who was whistling a Spanish waltz between her teeth, and watching the carriages and autos roll by in the street, took the envelope. She knew it was from Gilbert, before she opened it, by the little gold palette in the upper lefthand corner.
After tearing it open she pored over the contents for a while, absorbedly. Then, with a serious face, she went and stood at her uncle’s elbow.
“Uncle Jerome, Gilbert is a nice boy, isn’t he?”
“Why, bless the child!” said old Jerome, crackling his paper loudly; “of course he is. I raised him myself.”
“He wouldn’t write anything to anybody that wasn’t exactly—I mean that everybody couldn’t know and read, would he?”
