Now the real reason for Rollo’s happy acquiescence in his father’s plan was that there was one name on his list which he had not mentioned.
Anabelle—for it was indeed she—was a charming girl of about Rollo’s own age, whom he had met on several occasions, and of whom he had thought more than ever since their last meeting at the great football contest between the academies of Yale and Princeton.
“Hurrah!” shouted Rollo to himself as he hurried toward Fifth Avenue, which is the Main Street of New York City. “Hurrah! I can now spend my entire dollar on Anabelle.”
This was Rollo’s first Christmas season in a great city and, although he had begun to feel quite at home in the thoroughfares, he was nevertheless greatly surprised to find so many folk abroad at such an early hour.
He finally found himself in the portal of a magnificent shop in the windows of which were beautiful oil paintings.
“The very thing!” thought Rollo. “Anabelle herself is so beautiful, and she paints, too, herself—a little. It is a merry idea.”
Everything within was very grand and gloomy, particularly the shop attendants, who were tall young gentlemen in immaculate cut-away coats.
“My favourite artist is Rockwell Kent,” said Rollo. “He once painted my father’s barn—in a picture, of course. Have you anything by him which would be suitable for a young lady?”
“I doubt it very much,” said the gentleman, “but we shall see.”