“Certainly, Mr. Howard. I shall be very glad to have you do so.”
“I will write it, and, as the answer should come from you, you can copy it if you like.”
“Very well. You will find pens and paper on the table.”
Walter sat down to the table with a twinkle of merriment in his eyes, and dashed off the following reply:
“Mr. Barclay and Mr. Howard are deeply indebted to Miss Melinda Athanasia Jones for her kind invitation, and will have pleasure in visiting her Amaranthine bower at the time appointed, and trust that they may be inspired by the muses, whose favorite haunt it is, to hold appropriate converse with the fair occupant, exchanging thoughts that breathe and words that burn.”
“What do you think of that?” asked Walter, reading it aloud to his companion.
“You have beaten her with her own weapons,” said Barclay, laughing. “She will be delighted. I hope, by the way, that you will carry some Russia salve, in case the burns should prove severe.”
“The burns are only metaphorical. They won’t be uncomfortable.”
“I think you had better answer the epistle yourself, Mr. Howard. I feel a little modest about taking the credit of so high-flown a production.”
“Let it go in my handwriting then. It purports to be from us both.”