"Then he will be more likely to go to Denver."
Connie's gaze was in the fire, and she swerved aside from the straight path of inference.
"He will write to Dick," she said. "I should like to read the letter when it comes, if I may."
Myra promised, and so it rested; but when Jeffard's letter came, and Bartrow had shared its astounding news with his wife, Myra was for rescinding her promise.
"I don't know why she shouldn't read it," said Dick. "She has always been more or less interested in him, and it will do her a whole lot of good to know that we were all off wrong. Jeffard's little slap at me hits her, too, but she won't mind that."
"No," said Myra; "I was thinking of something else,—something quite different."
"Is it sayable?"
They were sitting on the steps of the extended porch. The night-shift was at work in the Myriad below, and the rattle and clank of a dump-car coming out postponed her answer. When the clangor subsided she glanced over her shoulder.
"She can't hear," said Bartrow. "She's in the sitting-room reading to Uncle Steve."