"P. S. (Private)—It would be wise, Harry, if you should call upon your cousin. A visit from you would look well at this time."
"A call on Rob? Gad, I never thought of that. Give me the stationery, Indigo."
For five minutes Harry Arnold was alone, writing his prettiest note of compliment to accompany the gift of flowers to Miss Rosalie March. He had just moistened the mucilage when there came a ring at the bell.
"See if that's the fellows, Indigo. Look through the shutters."
"It's Kennedy," said Indigo, twisting his neck and eyes so as to get a slanting view of the callers.
"Who else?"
"Idler and Sunburst."
"Let them up."
"Well, Harry," cried the first of the three bloods, extending a hand, "what's the tempo of your song this morning?"
"Allegro, vivace, vivacissimo, Idler. Convalescing; doctor says I may go out; mother agreeable; medicine chest thrown to the dogs. Have a pill; only a few more left."