pocket a number of letters, and,
separating a large typewritten one from several small blue ones,
arranged the latter in a row before him according to their dates, and
proceeded, with evident satisfaction, to read them through twice. Then
glancing around to make quite sure that no one had crawled through the
key-hole, he unlocked a drawer, and took out a key which in turn
unlocked a box from which he carefully took a small object, and
contemplated it with undisguised admiration.

It was an amethyst ring, and in the center of the stone was set a pearl.
He held it in the narrow strip of light, and read the inscription
engraved within: "Guinevere forever."

For Miss Guinevere Gusty, ever plastic to a stronger will, had
succumbed to the potent combination of absence and ardor, and given her
half-hearted consent for Mr. Opp to speak to her mother. Upon that
lady's unqualified approval everything would depend.

Mr. Opp had received the letter a week ago, and he had immediately
written to the city for a jeweler's circular, made his selection, and
received the ring. He had written eight voluminous and eloquent epistles
to Guinevere, but he had not yet found the propitious moment in which to
call upon Mrs. Gusty. Every time he started, imperative business called
him elsewhere.

As he sat turning the stone in the sunlight and admiring every detail,
the conviction oppressed him that he could no longer find any excuse for
delay. But even as he made the decision to face the ordeal, his eye
involuntarily swept the desk for even a momentary reprieve. The large
typewritten letter arrested his attention; he took it up and reread it.

Dear Opp: Do you know any nice, comfortable place in your
neighborhood for a man to go blind in? I'll be in the hospital for
another month, and after that I am to spend the summer out of doors,
in joyful anticipation of an operation which I am assured beforehand
will probably be unsuccessful. Under the peculiar circumstances I am
not particular about the scenery, human or natural; the whole affair
resolves itself into a matter of flies and feather-beds. If you know
of any place where I can be reasonably comfortable, I wish you'd
drop me a line. The ideal place for me would be a neat pine box
underground, with a dainty bunch of daisies overhead.

Yours gratefully,

Willard Hinton.

P.S. I sent you a box of my books last week. Chuck out