I am _not_ Kate Meadows.

Ah, here is a note from him now! He always writes from the Club--the
Pelham, of course. I don't know the people who belong to any other Club.
What a nice thing it must be to go down to the Club at night, or
whenever you like--I wish I was a man. And this is his note:


"Your Platonic friend, Henry Seyhmoor, seems quite devoted here of
late, my dear Miss Mason. I saw you with him last evening at the
theater; your talk charmed him into unusual silence. How entertaining
you must have been!

"Won't you go with me to the opera Friday night; and won't you be as
nice to me then as you were at the musicale--no, not that nice only,
but even nicer still--as nice--as--well--as I should like you to be;
won't you?

"_Robert Fairfield_"


A note of mere nothings. My common sense tells me that much. Yet I find
myself forming words for myself between the written lines, and twice
read that dainty card, with the crest and motto of Pelham. Of course
I'll go with him; for to go with Robert Fairfield any where means a
delightful time to any girl so fortunate. It means a bunch of roses
almost heavenly in their sweet loveliness! It means the two best seats
in the theater! It means the turning of a hundred envious female eyes
from all parts of the crowded house; for our theater is always crowded
on Friday nights, no matter what the play or players may chance to be.