"
"Oh, you take too serious a view of it, Stuart," I ventured. "You're
mad and tired now. I don't blame you, of course, but you mustn't be
rash. Don't send that letter yet. Wait until you've had the week at
Barnegat--you'll feel better then. You can write the book in ten
days after your return; or if you still find you can't do it, it will
be time enough to withdraw then."
"What hope is there after that?" he cried, tossing a bundle of
manuscript into my lap. "Just read that, and tell me what's the use.
I'd mapped out a meeting between Marguerite Andrews and a certain Mr.
Arthur Parker, a fellow with wealth, position, brains, good looks--in
short, everything a girl could ask for, and that's what came of it."
I spread the pages out upon the table before me and read:
CHAPTER IV: A DECLARATION
"I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love."
- "Merchant of Venice."
Parker mounted the steps lightly and rang the bell. Marguerite's
kindness of the night before, which was in marked contrast to her
coolness at the MacFarland dance, had led him to believe that he was
not wholly without interest to her, and her invitation that he should
call upon her had given him a sincere pleasure; in fact, he wondered
that he should be so pleased over so trivial a circumstance.
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