That afternoon a letter arrived, by stage mail, from Frankie Arling. It was another of her school compositions.
"Dear Evan: Your letter just came, telling us you can't get off for Thanksgiving. I think it is real mean of your manager to treat you like that. I don't think the bank is fair with its clerks at all.
"Now, there's a young fellow here (an awfully clever and nice chap) who counted on getting down to the city, but he was out in his books, so the manager couldn't let him off. His name is Reade: we are going to have him up to the house for tea. Father likes him, and so do all of us.
"I'm going to a dance to-night; that is why I am sending this letter away in such a hurry. You don't deserve a very long one, though, do you? Hoping you spend a decent Thanksgiving, and wishing you success.
Yours sincerely,
"FRANK."
"Success be darned!" mumbled Evan. The smile with which he had begun the letter had died down to an emaciated grin and finally evaporated between compressed lips. "I hope Reade enjoys himself!"
He went to the telephone and rang up two longs and three shorts—the post-office. Had he reread Frankie's letter and sat down to analyze it and to think, he probably would not have telephoned; but when a fellow has lost a summer's savings and a Thanksgiving dinner all at once, it is, perhaps, natural that he should feel uncertain even of his sweet-heart, and act accordingly.
"Hello," said Evan; "is that you, Lily?"
"Yes, this is me!"
"How would you like to go for a drive? You would? All right, I'll call for you after supper."