She had left one of her cards with Mrs. Gore. The poor, good soul (come in from her baking) was quite taken aback. Then Cornelia, conscious of too stiff an application of the social code, kissed her on coming away and made herself more intelligible.
"Yes," Abbie was saying to Ogden, a few minutes later, "Cornelia is a pretty smart girl. Father has come to be quite taken with her."
He noticed that she said—Cornelia.
"She takes down some of his letters, now, too," she continued. "I never learned," she added, in a tone of slight self-reproach.
"Good Peter!" exclaimed Ogden, with a protesting admiration, "you can do almost everything else!"
She waved aside this ardent apology, and looked rather shyly through the rusty iron-work of the hand-rail. The syringas were in blossom; the asphalt path had stopped its afternoon's running and had solidified since sundown.
"I think he likes her because she isn't afraid of him. Neither are you," she added, in a low tone, as if on an after-thought. She did not look his way.
Ogden appreciated this appreciation of his behavior. He had always been prompt and respectful with Brainard, but he had never knuckled down.
"He gives her letters almost every day. She corrects his mistakes."
"And he corrects hers?"