Courtney read two of his letters. The third he consigned, unopened, to the fireplace at Dowd's Tavern. The little package, minus the wrapping paper, was locked away in his trunk.
Charlie Webster, emerging from his office at the dinner hour,—twelve noon,—espied Miss Angie Miller hurrying toward the Tavern. He hailed her,—not ceremoniously or even gallantly,—but in the manner of Windomville.
"Hey!" he called, and Angie promptly responded, not with the dignity for which she was famous but with an entirely human spontaneity:
"Hey yourself!"
She waited till he caught up with her.
"Have you had an answer to that letter, Angie?" he inquired, glancing at a small bunch of letters she held in her hand.
"No, I haven't." she replied, somewhat guardedly. "I can't understand why he hasn't answered, Charlie,—unless he's away or something."
"Must be that," said he, frowning slightly. "You wrote nearly two weeks ago, didn't you?"
"Two weeks ago yesterday."
"Sure you had the right address?"