It was just in time, for the pitcher was again emptied, but this time the water only wet the sidewalk.
"Surely you can't love her after that," said Robert.
"No. She is not what my fancy painted her. What can I do?"
"You had better let the matter drop."
"No. I will go home and write her a reproachful letter. I will make her ashamed of herself."
"Better not. She will only laugh at it."
"But it will make me feel better. I—would you mind going into the Sherman House with me while I write the letter?"
"Better wait till to-morrow."
"No, it will ease my breaking heart if I write to her to-night."
Sympathizing with his friend, Robert made no further opposition, and Palmer stepped into the Sherman House, procured a sheet of paper, and wrote thus: