“I’d just like to see him try it,” said uncle, tearing a handful from his newspaper. “Why, what—”
“Read this note he just sent me, uncle, and see if you think it’s all right and proper. You see, I don’t know much about city people and their ways.”
Old Jerome threw his paper down and set both his feet upon it. He took Gilbert’s note and fiercely perused it twice, and then a third time.
“Why, child,” said he, “you had me almost excited, although I was sure of that boy. He’s a duplicate of his father, and he was a gilt-edged diamond. He only asks if you and Barbara will be ready at four o’clock this afternoon for an automobile drive over to Long Island. I don’t see anything to criticise in it except the stationery. I always did hate that shade of blue.”
“Would it be all right to go?” asked Nevada, eagerly.
“Yes, yes, yes, child; of course. Why not? Still, it pleases me to see you so careful and candid. Go, by all means.”
“I didn’t know,” said Nevada, demurely. “I thought I’d ask you. Couldn’t you go with us, uncle?”
