“Don’t you remember me? I’m Charlie Horn.”
“Oh!” And instinctively, as if to identify him by Charlie Horn’s well-remembered strawberry-marks, Katherine glanced at his hands. But they were clean, and the warts were gone. She looked at him in doubt. “You can’t be Nellie Horn’s little brother?”
“I’m not so little,” he said, with some resentment. “Since you knew me,” he added a little grandiloquently, “I’ve graduated from Bloomington.”
“Please pardon me! It was kind of you to call, and so soon.”
“Well, you see I came on business. I suppose you have seen this afternoon’s Express?”
She instinctively stiffened.
“I have not.”
He drew out a copy of the Express, opened it, and pointed a plump, pinkish forefinger at the beginning of an article on the first page.
“You see the Express says you are going to be your father’s lawyer.”