“Oh, Jessica, for Heaven’s sake don’t be so iron-bound!” cried her friend. “Read them.”
“You can read them if you choose. I have no interest beyond knowing that they received mine.”
Miss Decker needed no second invitation. She caught the letters from Mrs. Pendleton’s lap and tore one of them open. She read a few lines, then dropped limply on a chair.
“Jessica!” she whispered, with a little agonised gasp, “listen to this.”
Mrs. Pendleton turned her eyes inquiringly, but would not stoop to curiosity. “Well,” she said, “I am listening.”
“It is from Mr. Trent. And—listen:—
“‘Angel! I think if you had kept me waiting one day longer you would have met a lunatic wandering on the Newport cliffs. Last night I attended a primary and made such an egregious idiot of myself (although I was complimented later upon my speech) that I shall never understand why I was not hissed. But hereafter I shall be inspired. And how you will shine in Washington! That is the place for our talents. After reading your reserved yet impassioned note, I do not feel that I can talk more rationally upon politics than while in suspense. What do you think I did? I made it all up with Severance, Dedham, and Boswell, whom I met just after receiving it. I could afford to forgive them. They, by the way, go to Newport to-morrow. Farewell, most brilliant of women, destined by Heaven to be the wife of a diplomatist—for I will confide to you that that is my ultimate ambition. Until to-morrow,
“‘Clarence Trent.’”
“Well! What do you think of that?”
A pink wave had risen to Mrs. Pendleton’s hair, then receded and broken upon the haughty curve of her mouth.