It was some time before Mr. Hurd raised a thoughtful yet somewhat amused face to that of his caller.
"I'll consider the matter," he said tersely.
"I thank you, sir," replied Charles, with graceful humility, which he dared assume since his case seemed won. And a moment later South Framingham's one time pride watched his exit through the grille gate into the descending elevator.
As Wilkinson started blithely across the Common, he caught sight of a familiar figure advancing along one of the diagonal paths. He quickened his already jocund step to meet Miss Maitland at the intersection of their ways.
"Whither away so briskly this hungry noon?" he inquired with enthusiasm. "If it were not for the fact that I am in search of some one to ask me to luncheon, I would ask you to come and lunch with me."
"Then if I were really quite hungry, which I am after an hour in this autumn air, I should decline your gallant invitation with regret, and say that I am on my way to lunch with Uncle Silas at the Club."
Charlie was on the point of telling her his news—but changed his intent. After all, his were incubator chickens at best, and perhaps it would be wiser to postpone a public enumeration of them. So he merely replied, "I trust you will have a pleasant luncheon."
"The same to you, and many of them—consecutively," replied the girl, with a laugh.
"Now, that's what I call a friendly speech," rejoined her escort, and the two went their separate ways.
At the club whose billiard players have the almost unique privilege between masse shots of regarding at close range the tombstones of an aristocratic cemetery, Helen and her uncle were comfortably lingering over their demi-tasses before Mr. Osgood's guest gave speech to the thoughts within her.