"I should like a glass of your lemonade," I answered, bravely laying
down the only piece of money I possessed.

Her stern lips parted in a smile, and my courage came back cautiously,
that is to say, by degrees. She filled a glass for me, and as I gulped
it down I could almost detect the flavor of lemon and sugar.

"It is very good," I volunteered, passing back the glass. I held out
my hand, smiling.

"There isn't any change," coolly.

I flushed painfully. It was fully four miles to Newspaper Row. I was
conscious of a sullen pride. Presently the object of my errand
returned. Somewhat down the path I saw a gentleman reclining in a
canvas swing.

"Is that Mr. Wentworth?" I asked.

"Yes. Do you wish to speak to him? Uncle Bob, here is a gentleman who
desires to speak to you."

I approached. "Mr. Wentworth," I began, cracking the straw in my hat,
"my name is John Winthrop. I am a reporter. I have called to see if
it is true that you have declined the Italian portfolio."

"It is true," he replied kindly. "There are any number of reasons for
my declining it, but I cannot make them public. Is that all?"