will be, as always, a real pleasure to--

Yours in all admiration,

J. MARCUS GARD.

P.S.--I suggest your coming here, as the details of
business are best transacted in the quiet of a business
office,
and I therefore crave your presence and indulgence.--

J.M.G.


Mrs. Marteen was dressing for the street; her hands were gloved, her
sable muff swung from a gem-studded chain, her veil was nicely adjusted;
yet she hesitated, her eyes upon a busy silver clock that already marked
the appointed hour. The room was large, wainscoted in dark paneling; a
capacious fireplace jutted far out, and was made further conspicuous by
two settees of worm-eaten oak. The chairs that backed along the walls
were of stalwart pattern. A collection of English silver tankards was
the chief decoration, save straight hangings of Cordova leather at the
windows, and a Spanish embroidery, tarnished with age, that swung beside
the door. Hardly a woman's room, and yet feminine in its minor touches;
the gallooned red velvet cushions of the Venetian armchair; the violets
that from every available place shed their fresh perfume on the quiet
air, a summer window box crowded with hyacinths, the wicker basket, home
of a languishing Pekinese spaniel, tucked under one corner of the table.
Mrs. Marteen continued to hesitate, and the hands of the clock to travel
relentlessly.