They were to be typewritten. He had no intention of struggling with any woman's handwriting, though Augusta murmured that hers was considered very legible.
It was not her custom to take a definite step like this without consulting Horace--not so much because Horace insisted on it as because she thought highly of his opinion. She was astonished now, as in the Subway she thought over the interview, to find how little she had been thinking of Horace. They had been engaged for something over two years, one of those comfortable engagements, which until recently had had no prospects of marriage.
The Rutland College Club is almost deserted in summer. As she ran upstairs to the library, where she was to meet Horace, she glanced at her watch and saw to her regret that he must have been waiting almost an hour, for he was punctual, and usually arrived a little ahead of the hour. She was sorry--such a busy man; but he would understand—she would explain----
He rose from a deep chair as she entered--a serious young man whom everyone trusted at first sight. She saw he looked a little more serious than usual, and her sense of guilt made her attribute this seriousness to her own fault. She began to explain quickly and with unaccustomed vivacity. She sketched the interview--Mr. Wood—his office--the promise--the letters--the turquoise. Horace kept getting more and more solemn, although it seemed to her that she made a very good story of it--more amusing perhaps than the reality had been.