"What! Are you going at once?"

"Yes, this very night,--or to-morrow. Or no, I can't go to-morrow. There's
something I was going to do to-morrow."

"Perhaps go to church."

"Oh, that of course. But it was in the afternoon. Stop! I have it! I want
you to go sleigh-riding with me in the afternoon."

"I don't know about that," Marcia began.

"But I do," said the young man. "Hold on: I'll put my request in writing."
He opened her portfolio, which lay on the table. "What elegant stationery!
May I use some of this elegant stationery? The letter is to a lady,--to
open a correspondence. May I?" She laughed her assent. "How ought I to
begin? Dearest Miss Marcia, or just Dear Marcia: which is better?"

"You had better not put either--"

"But I must. You're one or the other, you know. You're dear--to your
family,--and you're Marcia: you can't deny it. The only question is whether
you're the dearest of all the Miss Marcias. I may be mistaken, you know.
We'll err on the safe side: Dear Marcia:" He wrote it down. "That looks
well, and it reads well. It looks very natural, and it reads like
poetry,--blank verse; there's no rhyme for it that I can remember. Dear
Marcia: Will you go sleigh-riding with me to-morrow afternoon, at two
o'clock sharp? Yours--yours? sincerely, or cordially, or affectionately, or
what? The 'dear Marcia' seems to call for something out of the common.