“Now it is you who are the flatterer.”
“It’s true; isn’t it, Ichabod?”
“Melinda had no appetite when you were gone, Mr. Howard,” said the brother. “She was all the time writin’ poetry.”
“Won’t you come to my bower this evening, Mr. Howard? We will commune with the muses.”
“I am sorry, Miss Jones, but I must call on General Wall this evening.”
“Then let it be to-morrow evening.”
“I won’t promise, but if I can, I will come.”
General Wall was sitting at his desk, making a calculation of the profits that would accrue to him from the Great Metropolitan Mining Company. His calculation appeared to be a satisfactory one, judging from his complacent look. He was interrupted by the entrance of the servant ushering in Walter. Not having heard of our hero’s return, he was surprised to see him.
“Good-evening, Mr. Howard,” he said. “I had not heard of your return. When did you get back?”
“This evening.”