"How outrageous! You tell Captain Phipps to send his letters to me; I'll get them to you. They'll never suspect my fine Italian hand, with my name and address on the envelope."
Eleanor looked at her older cousin dubiously. "I hate to do underhand things like that!" she said crossly.
"You wouldn't have to if they treated you decently. Opening your letters! The idea! I wouldn't stand for it. I'd show them a thing or two."
Eleanor stood listlessly buttoning her glove, pondering what Rose was saying.
"I wonder if I could get word to the Captain to-night?" she said. "Shall I really tell him to send the letters to you?"
"No; tell him to bring them. I'm crazy to see what his nibs looks like."
"He looks like that picture of Richard Mansfield downstairs—the one taken as Beau Brummel. He's the most fastidious man you ever saw, and too subtle for words."
"He's terribly rich, isn't he?"
"I don't know," said Eleanor indifferently. "His father is a Chicago manufacturer of some kind. Does Papa Claude think he is very talented?"
"Talented! He says he's one of the most gifted young men he ever met. They are hatching out some marvelous schemes to write a play together. Papa Claude is treading on air."