"I was sorry, my dear Lydia, to be late," said Mr. Rives, in his soft voice; "I was detained by waiting for the mail."
Miss Lydia said, brightly, that it didn't matter.
"But it was worth waiting for," William assured her. "I have done a good piece of business. (Not that it will make me richer; I have so many obligations to meet!) But it was a fortunate stroke."
"That is good," said Miss Lydia.
"A female in a distant city, where I own a poor little bit of real estate—nothing of any value, Lydia; I am a poor man—"
"That's no difference," she told him, softly.
"—this female, a widow, and foolish (as widows always are)," William said, with a little giggle, "asked me to sell her a house I owned. She wished, for some reason, to purchase in that locality. I named the market price. I did so, by letter, a fortnight ago. I believe she thought it high; but that was her affair. She would have to sell certain securities to purchase it, she said. But as I wrote her—'my dear madam, that's your business.'" Mr. Rives laughed a little. Miss Lydia looked up, smiling and interested. "Yes," said Mr. Rives—"I didn't urge it. I never urge, because then I can't be blamed if things go wrong. But I held my price. That is always good policy—not to drop a dollar on price. So she's bought it. She made a payment yesterday to bind the sale. Not that I feel any richer, for I must immediately apply the money to the purchase of other things."
"That's nice," Miss Lydia said.
"I guess it is," William agreed; "I happen to know that a boiler factory is to be erected on the rear lot."
"But will she like that—the poor widow?" Miss Lydia said.