Moving stealthily to the door, he locked it, then pulled down the shade until only a strip of light fell across his table. These precautions having been observed, he took from his pocket a number of letters, and, separating a large typewritten one from several small blue ones, arranged the latter in a row before him according to their dates, and proceeded, with evident satisfaction, to read them through twice. Then glancing around to make quite sure that no one had crawled through the key-hole, he unlocked a drawer, and took out a key which in turn unlocked a box from which he carefully took a small object, and contemplated it with undisguised admiration.
It was an amethyst ring, and in the center of the stone was set a pearl. He held it in the narrow strip of light, and read the inscription engraved within: “Guinevere forever.”
For Miss Guinevere Gusty, ever plastic [p213] to a stronger will, had succumbed to the potent combination of absence and ardor, and given her half-hearted consent for Mr. Opp to speak to her mother. Upon that lady’s unqualified approval everything would depend.
Mr. Opp had received the letter a week ago, and he had immediately written to the city for a jeweler’s circular, made his selection, and received the ring. He had written eight voluminous and eloquent epistles to Guinevere, but he had not yet found the propitious moment in which to call upon Mrs. Gusty. Every time he started, imperative business called him elsewhere.
As he sat turning the stone in the sunlight and admiring every detail, the conviction oppressed him that he could no longer find any excuse for delay. But even as he made the decision to face the ordeal, his eye involuntarily swept the desk for even a momentary reprieve. The large typewritten letter arrested his attention; he took it up and reread it.
[p214]
Dear Opp: Do you know any nice, comfortable place in your neighborhood for a man to go blind in? I’ll be in the hospital for another month, and after that I am to spend the summer out of doors, in joyful anticipation of an operation which I am assured beforehand will probably be unsuccessful. Under the peculiar circumstances I am not particular about the scenery, human or natural; the whole affair resolves itself into a matter of flies and feather-beds. If you know of any place where I can be reasonably comfortable, I wish you’d drop me a line. The ideal place for me would be a neat pine box underground, with a dainty bunch of daisies overhead.
Yours gratefully,
Willard Hinton.
P.S. I sent you a box of my books last week. Chuck out what you don’t want. The candy was for your sister.
Mr. Opp, with the letter still in his hand, suddenly saw a way out of his difficulty: he would make Hinton’s request an excuse for a call upon Mrs. [p215] Gusty. No surer road to her good graces could he travel than by seeking her advice.