The house, because of its size, was destined for a boarding-house. That too put him in mind of intrepid Minnie and her venture.
“Poor girl!” he thought. “A brave little soul! What’s become of her, I wonder?”
II
This day he was not thinking about her; he was busy in his office, dictating letters to his spinster stenographer, the sound of his drawling, hesitating voice filling the little room. A window was open to let in the sweet May air, and a breeze ruffled his hair. As usual he was in his shirt sleeves.
The door was open, and in she came; said, gently:
“Mr. Petersen!”
“Miss Minnie!” he cried, jumping up, and according to his custom, hurrying into his respectable dark coat. “Well, well, Miss Minnie!”
She shook her head.
“Mrs. Naylor,” she corrected him, with a smile; the very same pleasant, kindly smile. He stared at her, smiling himself, and shaking his head.
“Well, well!” he repeated.