down my daughter and then hold me up for a job, all in the same
breath. Here! Don't dance on my rug. I ought to be offended, and I
am, but--Get out while I telephone Elsa, so she can dance, too."

O'Reilly spent that evening in writing a long letter to Rosa
Varona. During the next few days his high spirits proved a trial
and an affront to Mr. Slack, who, now that his employer had
departed for the West, had assumed a subdued and gloomy dignity to
match the somber responsibilities of his position.

Other letters went forward by succeeding posts, and there was no
doubt now, that O'Reilly's pen was tipped with magic! He tingled
when he reread what he had written. He bade Rosa prepare for his
return and their immediate marriage. The fun and the excitement of
planning their future caused him to fill page after page with
thrilling details of the flat-hunting, home-fitting excursions
they would take upon their return to New York. He wrote her
ecstatic descriptions of a suite of Grand Rapids furniture he had
priced; he wasted a thousand emotional words over a set of china
he had picked out, and the results of a preliminary trip into the
apartment-house district required a convulsive three-part letter
to relate. It is remarkable with what poetic fervor, what strength
of feeling, a lover can describe a five-room flat; with what
glories he can furnish it out of a modest salary and still leave
enough for a life of luxury.

But O'Reilly's letters did not always touch upon practical things;
there was a wide streak of romance in him, and much of what he
wrote was the sort of thing which romantic lovers always write--
tender, foolish, worshipful thoughts which half abashed him when