A.
P.S.S.--Under separate cover by registered post I am also returning
to you the bracelet you sent me from Paris. I think I wrote you a
long time ago how much I admired it. A.
Meanwhile, Thane was making the best of a rather empty morning. He
put off finishing a letter to his mother, who had returned to New
York and was so busy with dressmakers that twice she had employed
the telegraph in promising to "write soon,"--a letter in which
he already had written, among other rapturous passages: "She is
positively ravishing, mater dear. I am simply mad about her, and
I know you will be too." He was determined that the day should not
be a total loss; he would turn at least a portion of it to profit.
First of all, he visited Alaska Spigg at the log-hut village
library. Miss Spigg was very proud of her geraniums. No one else
in Windomville,--or in the world, for that matter, if one were to
recall Mr. Pollock's article in the Sun,--no one else cultivated
such geraniums as those to be seen in the pots that crowned the
superinforced windowsills at the library.
There was no such thing as a florist's shop in Windomville. Roses
or orchids or even carnations were unobtainable. A potted geranium
plant, in full bloom,--one of Alaska Spigg's tall, sturdy, jealously
guarded treasures was the best he could do in the way of a floral
offering to his goddess.
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