It is a common custom to refer to the usual complication between one
man and two ladies, or one lady and two men, or a lady and a man and
a nobleman, or--well, any of those problems--as the triangle. But
they are never unqualified triangles. They are always isosceles--never
equilateral. So, upon the coming of Nevada Warren, she and Gilbert and
Barbara Ross lined up into such a figurative triangle; and of that
triangle Barbara formed the hypotenuse.
One morning old Jerome was lingering long after breakfast over the
dullest morning paper in the city before setting forth to his down-town
fly-trap. He had become quite fond of Nevada, finding in her much of
his dead brother's quiet independence and unsuspicious frankness.
A maid brought in a note for Miss Nevada Warren.
"A messenger-boy delivered it at the door, please," she said. "He's
waiting for an answer."
Nevada, who was whistling a Spanish waltz between her teeth, and
watching the carriages and autos roll by in the street, took the
envelope. She knew it was from Gilbert, before she opened it, by the
little gold palette in the upper left-hand corner.
After tearing it open she pored over the contents for a while,
absorbedly. Then, with a serious face, she went and stood at her uncle's
elbow.
"Uncle Jerome, Gilbert is a nice boy, isn't he?"
"Why, bless the child!" said old Jerome, crackling his paper loudly; "of
course he is. I raised him myself."
"He wouldn't write anything to anybody that wasn't exactly--I mean that
everybody couldn't know and read, would he?"
"I'd just like to see him try it," said uncle, tearing a handful from
his newspaper. "Why, what--"
"Read this note he just sent me, uncle, and see if you think it's all
right and proper. You see, I don't know much about city people and their
ways."
Old Jerome threw his paper down and set both his feet upon it. He took
Gilbert's note and fiercely perused it twice, and then a third time.
"Why, child," said he, "you had me almost excited, although I was sure
of that boy. He's a duplicate of his father, and he was a gilt-edged
diamond. He only asks if you and Barbara will be ready at four o'clock
this afternoon for an automobile drive over to Long Island. I don't see
anything to criticise in it except the stationery. I always did hate
that shade of blue."
"Would it be all right to go?" asked Nevada, eagerly.
"Yes, yes, yes, child; of course. Why not? Still, it pleases me to see
you so careful and candid. Go, by all means."
"I didn't know," said Nevada, demurely. "I thought I'd ask you. Couldn't
you go with us, uncle?"
"I? No, no, no, no! I've ridden once in a car that boy was driving.
Never again! But it's entirely proper for you and Barbara to go. Yes,
yes. But I will not. No, no, no, no!"
Nevada flew to the door, and said to the maid:
"You bet we'll go. I'll answer for Miss Barbara. Tell the boy to say
to Mr. Warren, 'You bet we'll go.'"
"Nevada," called old Jerome, "pardon me, my dear, but wouldn't it be
as well to send him a note in reply? Just a line would do."
"No, I won't bother about that," said Nevada, gayly. "Gilbert will
understand--he always does. I never rode in an automobile in my life;
but I've paddled a canoe down Little Devil River through the Lost Horse
Cañon, and if it's any livelier than that I'd like to know!"