at the letter again, “is what she can mean by writing this.”
“Not knowin’ what she’s wrote, I can’t say.”
“Mrs. Trapes, I know you are Hermione’s best and staunchest friend, and lately I have ventured to hope you are mine too. As such, I want you to read this letter—see if you can explain it!”
So Mrs. Trapes took the letter; and when she had read it through, folded it together with hands very gentle and reverent and stood awhile staring out into the sunlit court.
“My land!” she said at last, her harsh voice grown almost soft, “love’s a wonderful thing, I reckon. No wonder your eyes shine so. Yes, love’s a great an’ wonderful thing—my land!”
“But can you explain,” said Ravenslee, as he took back the letter, “can you tell me what she means by—”
“Shucks, Mr. Geoffrey! That sure don’t want no explainin’. When you said all you did say to her, did y’ say anything about ‘wife’ or ‘marriage’?”
“Why, of course I did!”
“Sure?”
“Yes—er—that is—I think so.”
“Not sure then?”
“Well, I may have done so—I must have done so, but really I—er—forget—”
“Forget!” Mrs. Trapes snorted. “Now look-a-here, Mr. Geoffrey, what d’ ye want with Hermy; is it a wife you’re after or only—”
“Mrs. Trapes!” Ravenslee was upon his feet, and before the sudden glare in his eyes Mrs. Trapes gaped and for once fell silent. “Mrs. Trapes,” said he, still frowning a little, “really you—you almost—made me angry.”
“My land!” said she, “I’m kind o’ glad I didn’t—quite!” and her sniff was eloquent.
“You see,” he went on, glancing down at the letter again, “I’ve learned to love and reverence her so much that your suggestion—hurt rather!”
“Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m sorry. But if your love is so big an’ true as all that—if you want her t’ be a wife t’ you—why in the ‘tarnal didn’t ye speak out an’ tell her so?”
“I’ll go and tell her so this minute.”
“Y’ can’t! She’s gone t’ Bronx Park with that b’y, ‘n’ won’t be back all day.”
“Damn!” exclaimed Ravenslee.
“Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes. “Keep on, it’ll do ye good. But anyway, what y’ got t’ say’ll keep, I guess—it’ll gush out all the stronger fer bein’ bottled up a day or two.”
“I can write!” he suggested.
“You can—but you won’t—you’ll tell her with your two lips—a woman likes it better spoke—if spoke proper—I should! With arms entwined an’ eyes lookin’ into eyes an’—oh, shucks! Will angel cake an’ strawberry jam—”
“They’ll be ample, and—thank you, dear Mrs. Trapes!”
CHAPTER XXIV
HOW THE OLD UN AND CERTAIN OTHERS HAD TEA
“Old Un,” said Joe, halting his aged companion in the middle of the second flight to wag a portentous finger, “Old Un, mind this now—if there should ‘appen to be cake for tea, don’t go makin’ a ancient beast of yourself with it—no slippin’ lumps of it into your pocket on the sly, mind, because if I ketch ye at it—”
“Don’t be ‘arsh, Joe, don’t be ‘arsh! Cake comes soft t’ me pore old teef.”
“An’ mind this again—if there should be any jam about, no stickin’ ye wicked old fingers into it an’ lickin’ ‘em behind my back.”
“You lemme an’ the jam alone, Joe; it’s a free country, ain’t it?—very well, then!”
“Free country be blowed! You mind what I say, you venerable old bag of iniquity, you!”
“‘Niquity yerself!” snarled the Old Un, and snapping bony finger and thumb under Joe’s massive chin, turned and went on up the stairs, his smart straw hat cocked at a defiant angle, his brilliant shoes creaking loudly at every step.
“Oh, Gorramighty!” he panted, halting suddenly on the fifth landing to get his breath, “these perishin’ stairs ‘as ketched my wind, Joe; it’s worse ‘n th’ treadmill! Is there many more of ‘em?”
“Only six flights!” nodded Joe grimly.
“Six!” wailed the Old Un. “Lord—it’ll be the death o’ me!”
“Well, it’s about time you was dead,” nodded Joe.
“Dead ye’self!” snarled the old man. “I’m a better figger of a man than ever you was—”
“An’ you would come,” continued Joe serenely, as he deftly resettled the old fellow’s sporty bow-tie. “You fair plagued me to bring ye along, didn’t ye, old packet o’ vindictiveness?”
“Well, an’ here I am, Joe, an’ here I mean t’ stay—no more climbin’ fer me; I’m tired, me lad, tired!” Saying which, the Old Un spread his handkerchief on a convenient stair and proceeded to seat himself thereon with due regard for his immaculately creased trousers.
“Well,” growled Joe, “of all the perverse old raspers that ever I did see—”
“That’s enough, Joe, that’s enough!” exclaimed the Old Un, fanning himself with his rakish hat. “Jest bend
