“I was,” he said. “I've got a new job, with King and Company in Boston. A good job, too, we can be married right away, and you don't need to worry.”
“Well, how did you happen to come here tonight? You didn't know I was going to be here. I didn't know it myself until an hour or so ago.”
“Perhaps I willed you to come, who knows?” he said, gaily. “Have you been advising lovers all this while, and didn't know that they always haunt the scenes of former felicity? I've been in town several days, and came here every night.”
He produced a copy of the Evening Planet which he had been reading when she came in.
“I had a special reason for thinking you might come here to-night,” he said. “This afternoon I read your column, and I saw Jessie's letter and your answer. What you said made me think that perhaps you might be willing to forgive me.” Ann, once more safely enthroned on the shining glory of her happiness, felt that she could afford to tease him just a little.
“Ah,” she said, “so you admit that some of those letters people write me are genuine, and that the answers do some good?”
He smiled at her and laid his hand over the ring, which outglittered even the most newly nickeled of Piazza's cutlery.
“Yes, honey,” he said. “I admit it. And I knew that Jessie's letter was genuine, because I wrote it myself.”