Professor Green looked scared and rather boyish. His Molly was bubbling over with suppressed merriment, while Dum and I had to assume a deep gloom to keep from exploding. Dee came to the rescue, of course, with rhapsodies over the garden, jumping from that to the pictures in the City Hall and back to praise Claire Gaillard, who was evidently a favorite of the old ladies.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven and St. Michael's bells verified its strike. I looked up at Professor Green as he choked down the last of the fatal rice.
"I'll give you another hour," I whispered.
"Thank you, but I believe another year would not help me."
I now own J. Gordon Coogler and father will have his Timrod, which, after all, had never really been in jeopardy.
CHAPTER XVI
LETTERS
From Mrs. Edwin Green to Mrs. Kent Brown, New York City.