“How’s that?”
Atwater settled himself deeper into the sofa, gathered the ends of the flaming robe closer about his thin body, and jammed a pillow under his head; but no word escaped him.
“Well, I’m waiting,” insisted Joe; “what do you think of it?”
“That you’ll get the mother, who’ll come to spy out the land; that the lightning-rod man will stay away, and that the girl, if she’s got any sense, and I think she has from what you’ve told me, will wait for the old lady’s report, and that that will end it. These people have come here to get away from everybody. That girl, no doubt, is all they’ve got, and they don’t want distinguished young architects mousing around. Save your money, Joe.”
“That letter’s going, Sam, just as I’ve written it. It’s the letter of a gentleman. Never will offend any lady, and she looks like one. Wait till I seal it. It ought to go at once—now—this very night. You get out of that Biblical bedquilt and get into your coat, slip down and leave it at the door. That will give me another chance in case this thing slips up. Could then make a suggestion about having the glass repaired. Never thought of that until this minute.”
“I wouldn’t get off this sofa, Joe, for all the girls in New York. Put a stamp on it, and I’ll mail it in the morning. There’s no hurry. We’re going to be here all winter.”
“Mail it, you half-breed! Mail a letter, and you in the same house!”
“Well, send it down by Moses.”
“Well, that’s more like it! Touch that bell—will you?—you’re nearest.”
Sam reached out and pressed a button within a foot of his head. Joe slipped the note into an envelope, sealed it with violet wax, waited until the little puddle was big enough to engulf the Grimsby crest engraved on his seal-ring, and was about to repeat the summons, when there came a knock at the door.