"Uncle Jerome, Gilbert is a nice boy, isn't he?"

"Why, bless the child!" said old Jerome, crackling his paper loudly; "of
course he is. I raised him myself."

"He wouldn't write anything to anybody that wasn't exactly--I mean that
everybody couldn't know and read, would he?"

"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."