Her hair was swept up high
from her brow; her nose, straight, like her father's, was saved from
arrogance by a sensitive mouth, all eloquent of kindness and wholesome
mirth--but we take unfair advantage! A girl dining in candle-light with
only her dreams for company should be safe from impertinent eyes.
She had kept Dick's letter till the last. He wrote often and in the key
of his talk. She dropped a lump of sugar into her coffee-cup and read his
hurried scrawl:
"What do you think has happened now? I have fourteen dollars' worth of
telegrams from Sanderson--wiring from some God-forsaken hole in Montana,
that it's all rot about Armitage being that fake Baron von Kissel. The
newspaper accounts of the _expose_ at my supper party had just reached
him, and he says Armitage was on his (Armitage's) ranch all that summer
the noble baron was devastating our northern sea-coast. Where, may I ask,
does this leave me? And what cad gave that story to the papers? And
where and _who_ is John Armitage? Keep this mum for the present--even
from the governor. If Sanderson is right, Armitage will undoubtedly turn
up again--he has a weakness for turning up in your neighborhood!--and
sooner or later he's bound to settle accounts with Chauvenet.
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