There was a little note tied to the handle. Towne’s personal paper was thick and white. Jane was aware of its expensiveness and it thrilled her. His script was heavy and black—the note had, unquestionably, an air.
“Dear Miss Barnes:
“I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your hospitality last night—and you were good to listen to me with so much sympathy. I am hoping that you’ll let me come again and talk about Edith. May I? And here’s a bit of color for your Thanksgiving feast.
“Gratefully always,
“Frederick Towne.”
Jane stood staring down at the friendly words. It didn’t seem within reason that Frederick Towne meant that he wanted to come—to see her. And she really hadn’t listened with sympathy. But—oh, of course, he could come. And it was heavenly to have a thing like this happen on a day like this.
As she straightened up with the basket in her hands, she saw herself again in the long mirror—a slender figure in green—bobbed black hair—golden and purple fruits. She gasped and gazed again. There was Baldy’s picture ready to his hand—November! Against a background of gray—that glowing figure—Baldy could idealize her—make the wind blow her skirts a bit—give her a fluttering ribbon or two, a glorified loveliness.
She sought him in his studio. “I’ve got something to show you, darling-dear.”
He was moody. “Don’t interrupt me, Jane.”
She rumpled up his hair, which he hated. “Mr. Towne sent us some fruit, Baldy, and this.” She held out the note to him.
He read it. “He doesn’t say a word about me.”
“No, he doesn’t,” her eyes were dancing; “Baldy, it’s your little sister, Jane.”
“You didn’t do a thing but sit there and knit——”