"I was too much frightened to thank him on the
spot, and now it would be ancient history. We must save our thanks till
we see him."
"I want to see him about other things. You must write and ask him to
dinner to-morrow or next day."
"Don't you think he would like it better if you would write?"
"There you are again--as if it mattered. Write that 'Mamma bids me.'
There, your hair is braided. Write the note now, and I will send it
over in the morning before he gets away."
Alice rose and walked to her escritoire, her long robe trailing, her
thick braids hanging almost to the floor, her fair cheek touched with a
delicate spot of color at the thought of writing a formal note to the
man she worshipped. She took a pen and wrote "My dear Mr. Farnham," and
the conventional address made her heart flutter and her eyes grow dim.
While she was writing, she heard her mother say:
"What a joke!"
She looked up, and saw that Mrs. Belding, having pushed open the
shutters, had picked up her opera-glass and was looking through it at
something out of the window.
"Do you know, Alice," she said, laughing, "since that ailantus tree was
cut down, you can see straight into his library from here.
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