The fifteen minutes passed, the boy returned, and I was still in a quandary. Finally, when the young imp presented himself in a business-like attitude, I seized a pen and wrote as follows:
Destroy the note I sent a moment ago and substitute this one.
Dear Miss May:—["Dear" does not mean anything at the beginning of a letter]—I am very sorry to learn that you feel it necessary to be absent over Monday, as I have many things to say to you. Perhaps, as you can do nothing in the meantime, it is best to let the matter rest till Tuesday morning, when I will call, promptly at ten, and we will decide everything.
Yours,
D.C.
The boy took this note, when it was sealed and addressed, and disappeared like magic. He had hardly gone when I wished I had sent a letter of different purport. There was an awful possibility that Miss May would take the chance I had undoubtedly offered, to give up the whole idea of going. She had certainly not seemed as enthusiastic as I could wish. I ran to a window, threw it open, and would have whistled to the boy, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It was like a matter of life and death to me then. Ringing in a call I took my pen again and indited the following:
Dear Marjorie:—for so you said I might call you:—I return the money that you sent back to me. Keep it till I meet you Tuesday morning at ten, when I will come prepared with a sum which will certainly meet every demand you can put upon it. You are wiser than I about feminine apparel and could not please me better than by the forethought you display. It is with great regret that I learn you are to be absent over Sunday and Monday, when I had hoped to pass some pleasant hours with you, but I cheerfully yield to your arrangement. Within a few days there will be no other friends to distract your attention from one who will prove himself the truest of them all.
Sincerely Yours,
D.C.