think he will last. Took me to lunch with him
this evening.’
“Now what do you think of that? The youth I described to you at such length keeps a diary, and the foregoing is culled therefrom. He left it by some mistake on top of his desk, and I picked it up innocently enough to-night, to see what it was, and that was the first thing my eye lit on. He is evidently an adept at coming to conclusions, apparently he can sum one up in two whisks of a porter’s broom. I was much surprised to find myself so well done. Done on every side in those few words. I’ve rather enjoyed it; strikes me as being uproariously funny. Maybe his dictum is correct. You’ll agree with me as to his richness. Tell every one about it and see what they will think. Tell your mother and my mother. Tell Jack and give him a chance to laugh. Tell Mayme Carter, too.”
Lavinia ran at once to her mother.
“Listen,” she said. And she read it.
Mrs. Blair laughed.
“How funny!” she said, “and how well he writes! I should think he’d go into literature.”
Lavinia laid the letter down in her lap and looked at her mother as if she had been startled by a striking coincidence.
“Why, do you know, I’ve thought of that very thing myself.”
“But read on,” urged Mrs. Blair.