Their intentions
were generally better than their methods. No great harm had been done,
for that matter. A letter, if written that night, would reach Mr. Michael
Harshaw at his ranch not later than the next night. All these troubles
could wait till the real Mr. Harshaw had been heard from. My husband would
see that her letter reached him promptly, and in the mean time Mr. Cecil
need not be told that we were proving his little story.
I was forced to humor her own theory of her case; but I have no idea,
myself, that Cecil Harshaw has not told the truth. He does not look like
a liar, to begin with, and how silly to palm off an invention for to-day
which to-morrow would expose!
Tom is still talking and talking. I really must interfere and give Mr.
Cecil a chance to go. It is quite too late to look for the other one. If he
comes at this hour, there is nothing he can do but go to bed.
... Well, the young man has gone, and Tom is shutting up the house, and I
hope the bride is asleep, though I doubt it. Have I told you how charming
she is? Not so discouragingly tall or so classic as the Du Maurier goddess,
but "comfy," much more "comfy," to my mind.
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