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From a Bench in Our Square by Samuel Hopkins Adams
page 102 of 259 (39%)
"For Patagonia it sounds reasonable. What next?"

"Next and immediately," said Mr. Dyke, "I am obtaining an address from
the Mordaunt Estate, and I am then taking this evening off."

"Take some advice also, my boy," said I, mindful of the butterfly's
alarms. "Go slow."

"Slow! Haven't I lost time enough already?"

"Perhaps. But now you've got all there is. Don't force the game. You've
frightened that poor child so that she never can feel sure what you're
going to do next."

"Neither can I, Dominie," confessed the candid youth. "But you're quite
right. I'll clamp on the brakes. I'll be as cool and conventional as a
slice of lemon on an iced clam. 'How well you're looking to-night, Miss
Leffingwell'--that'll be my nearest approach to unguarded personalities.
Trust me, Dominie, and thank you for the tip."

The memorial and erratic clock of Our Square was just striking seven of
the following morning, meaning approximately eight-forty, when my
astonished eyes again beheld Martin Dyke seated on my bench, beautifully
though inappropriately clad in full evening dress with a pink rose in
his coat lapel, and gazing at Number 37 with a wild, ecstatic glare.

"What have you been doing here all night?" I asked.

"Thinking."

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