But Nora was quite clear that she had not made a mistake.
“Who is it, Madge?” Mrs. Burtwell queried.
“It’s probably a book agent,” said Madge, as she went down-stairs to the parlour, rather begrudging the interruption to her darning bout.
Standing by the window, hat in hand, was an elderly man of a somewhat severe cast of countenance, as unsuggestive as possible, in his general appearance, of the comparatively frivolous name which a satirical fate had bestowed upon him. 116
As Madge entered the room he observed, without advancing a step toward her: “You are Miss Burtwell, I suppose. I came to answer your letter in person.”
“My letter?” asked Madge, with a confused impression that something remarkable was going forward.
“Yes; this one,”—and he drew from his pocket the red morocco miniature case.
“Oh!” cried Madge, “how glad I am to have it!—and how kind you are to bring it!—and, oh! that dreadful letter!”
The three aspects of the case had chased each other in rapid succession through her mind, and each had got its-self expressed in turn.
Mr. Spriggs did not relax a muscle of his face.