“Harold!” rang out an impatient voice.
“What, you there, Ted?” with unconcealed gladness; it seemed so cheery to have some one awake in the house.
“Yes; of course I'm here. You didn't suppose I'd go to bed, did you, with you prowling the streets this time of night?”
That is exactly what Harold had supposed, but he had the grace not to say so as he threw himself into a great easy-chair opposite Ted and clasped his hands behind his head in comfortable stay-awhile fashion, and as though quite ready to be agreeable if Ted would only let him.
“I went out for a walk and to post a letter,” he said, after a moment, and with a perceptible little note of apology in his tone for his uncivil answer of the half hour before.
“It must have been important,” said Ted, apparently amused at the thought of anything relating to that younger brother being in reality of any importance: “I should think though it possibly could have waited for the morning post.”
“Yes, it could, but I couldn't.” Surprised at this, Ted elevated his eyebrows.
“It was a letter to Uncle Fritz,” Harold added.
“To Uncle Fritz!” with evident annoyance. “What in creation have you been writing to him about?”
“I have asked him to come over with Aunt Louise and Marie-Celeste and make us a visit this summer.” It took Ted a moment to recover from his astonishment; then he answered curtly, “Well, you can just write him another letter and take it all back. Did it occur to you I might have other plans for this house for this summer?”