"How did you find Estelle when you called?"
Estelle? Estelle? Estelle! Nothing in Blodgett and Blatherwick's notes about Estelle. "A whole directory of names," as Judge Blodgett had said, but no Estelle. The world full of useless people—a billion and a half of them—and not an Estelle at poor Amidon's call in this time of need. Hence this long hiatus in the conversation.
"Really, Miss—er—a—my dear, I haven't had time to call on any one."
"It will be a little hard to explain," said she after a silence, "to my prospective bridesmaid and dearest friend, that you were so long in New York and could not call. It is not quite like you, Eugene."
He was sitting where he could see her well, and because she looked into the fire a good deal, he found himself gazing fixedly at her. Her manifold perfections filled him with the same feeling of astonishment experienced by that beggar who awoke in the prince's chamber, clothed in splendor, and with a royal domain in fee.
(Personally, I regard the domain which spread itself before Amidon, as imperial.)
As she pronounced her gentle reproof, her eyes turned to his, and he started guiltily.
"No," he confessed, "it was not the right thing. You must forgive me, won't you?"
"I hope," said she, smiling, "I may be able to do more than that: maybe I shall be so fortunate as to get you Estelle's forgiveness."
"Thank you," he said; and then seeking for safer ground: "Haven't you something for us to look over—some plans or something?"