“He has money,” acknowledged Tom grudgingly, “and that’s about all. Joe’s grandfather started his fortune digging ditches in Philadelphia.”
“I know now of whom thee speaks,” interposed Madame Yvonett. “But thee is mistaken; he didn’t dig ditches, he paved streets. Brother Hugh helped John Cooper to get his start in life; at one time he slept in our barn chamber.”
“I’d like Joe to hear that,” chuckled Tom. “He and I were at Lawrenceville together, and I had enough of his purse-pride there. The Calhoun-Coopers—don’t forget the hyphen, Cousin Yvonett—have leased your old house on Scott Circle.”
Marjorie, her observation quickened by the deep love and veneration in which she held her aunt, detected the shadow which crossed the benign old face and the dimming of the bright eyes as memories of other days crowded upon the Quakeress, and she swiftly changed the subject.
“Cousin Rebekah Graves is coming this afternoon to spend the winter with us,” she volunteered. “What day can we bring her to Fort Myer, Tom?”
“Come this Friday——” he stopped speaking as Minerva appeared from the hall and approached Marjorie.
“Hyar’s a note done come fo’ yo’, Miss Marjorie, and de chuffer’s waitin’ fo’ an answer.”
Marjorie scanned the fine, precise writing; it was not a hand she recognized, and handwriting to her was like a photograph. Excusing herself, she tore open the envelope and perused the note.
“Listen to this, Aunt Yvonett,” she began and read aloud:
Sheridan Circle.