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Page 27
A policeman caused her to waver on a corner, just by his eye and
weight.
"Hello, Mabel!" said he. "Kind of late for you to be out, ain't it?"
"I--I am just going to the drug store," said Nevada, hurrying past
him.
The excuse serves as a passport for the most sophisticated. Does it
prove that woman never progresses, or that she sprang from Adam's rib,
full-fledged in intellect and wiles?
Turning eastward, the direct blast cut down Nevada's speed one-half.
She made zigzag tracks in the snow; but she was as tough as a pinon
sapling, and bowed to it as gracefully. Suddenly the studio-building
loomed before her, a familiar landmark, like a cliff above some well-
remembered canon. The haunt of business and its hostile neighbor,
art, was darkened and silent. The elevator stopped at ten.
Up eight flights of Stygian stairs Nevada climbed, and rapped firmly
at the door numbered "89." She had been there many times before, with
Barbara and Uncle Jerome.
Gilbert opened the door. He had a crayon pencil in one hand, a green
shade over his eyes, and a pipe in his mouth. The pipe dropped to the
floor.
"Am I late?" asked Nevada. "I came as quick as I could. Uncle and me
were at the theatre this evening. Here I am, Gilbert!"
Gilbert did a Pygmalion-and-Galatea act. He changed from a statue of
stupefaction to a young man with a problem to tackle. He admitted
Nevada, got a whiskbroom, and began to brush the snow from her
clothes. A great lamp, with a green shade, hung over an easel, where
the artist had been sketching in crayon.
"You wanted me," said Nevada simply, " and I came. You said so in
your letter. What did you send for me for?"
"You read my letter?" inquired Gilbert, sparring for wind.
"Barbara read it to me. I saw it afterward. It said: 'Come to my
studio at twelve to-night, and do not fail.' I thought you were sick,
of course, but you don't seem to be."
"Aha!" said Gilbert irrelevantly. "I'll tell you why I asked you to
come, Nevada. I want you to marry me immediately -- to-night. What's
a little snow-storm? Will you do it?"
"You might have noticed that I would, long ago," said Nevada. "And
I'm rather stuck on the snow-storm idea, myself. I surely would hate
one of these flowery church noon-weddings. Gilbert, I didn't know you
had grit enough to propose it this way. Let's shock 'em--it's our
funeral, ain't it?"
"You bet!" said Gilbert. "Where did I hear that expression?" he added
to himself. "Wait a minute, Nevada; I want to do a little 'phoning."
He shut himself in a little dressing-room, and called upon the
lightnings of tile heavens--condensed into unromantic numbers and
districts.
"That you, Jack? You confounded sleepyhead! Yes, wake up; this is
me--or I--oh, bother the difference in grammar! I'm going to be
married right away. Yes! Wake up your sister--don't answer me back;
bring her along, too--you must!. Remind Agnes of the time I saved her
from drowning in Lake Ronkonkoma--I know it's caddish to refer to it,
but she must come with you. Yes. Nevada is here, waiting. We've
been engaged quite a while. Some opposition among the relatives, you
know, and we have to pull it off this way. We're waiting here for
you. Don't let Agnes out-talk you--bring her! You will? Good old
boy! I'll order a carriage to call for you, double-quick time.
Confound you, Jack, you're all right!"
Gilbert returned to the room where Nevada waited.
"My old friend, Jack Peyton, and his sister were to have been here at
a quarter to twelve," he explained; "but Jack is so confoundedly slow.
I've just 'phoned them to hurry. They'll be here in a few minutes.
I'm the happiest man in the world, Nevada! What did you do with the
letter I sent you to-day ?"
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