The Argosy — page 327: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Archibald Lester's Advertisement. 309 he turned them out on the dining-room table, muttering, ‘“‘ Are there so many women about thirty in the world? One can't marry them all.” The letters were specimens of every kind of composition and caligraphy. Some were well, some ill written: some correctly, some incorrectly spelt: some long, some short. Many contained minute descriptions of the personal charms and mental qualifications ot the writers, and of these, not a few enshrined photographs, which the overwhelmed Archibald examined with a chuckle of satisfaction, never having ventured to look so closely at a woman before. Others con- cluded with an entreaty for an interview or reply. ‘‘ Impossible !” he said, aghast at the idea. ‘I will insert an advertisement of ‘Suited,’ when I have made up my mind.” But how could he make up his mind? He would fix on the prettiest photograph P? No: beauty was but skin-deep. The best handwriting ? The spelling was bad. The most elegant composition ? The wniting was illegible. The longest letter? Oh dear no! his mother had written briefly and to the purpose. This decided him. He would answer the shortest. He picked it out from amongst the rest. It was as follows. ‘‘Mrs Moreton begs to apply for A. L.’s situation. Myrtle Cottage, Martinsborough.” _ “A widow. Well, a widow might be best, for she would know what to say, which he did not.” He set this laconic epistle aside with the photographs, and gathering together the other letters, he piled them up inand beneath the empty grate. Then he struck a hight and kindled a funeral pyre. Four gas-burners blazed down upon him as he again set to his task. Consuming more paper and ink, than was necessary, as most people do, he produced the following line. “A. L. will be at Myrtle Cottage, Friday, at 5 P.M.” Before Friday came, Archibald wished the female sex extinct, for he had never slept so badly in his fe as since the letters, and had seen nothing but visions of women in flames, with papers in their hands. Nevertheless, he dressed himself carefully that morning, and started early. He reached Martihsborough at the appointed time, and found Myrtle Cottage easily. It was a small, rickety house, and he looked in vain for myrtles. The garden was, however, full of autumnal flowers. He was asked to walk in at once, and the person who opened the door and requested him to be seated remained in the small room into which he was shown. It was Mrs. Moreton. He could hardly speak or look at her, and had never felt so shy before. She stood a few moments, awaiting his words, but hearing none, sat down and looked at him. After a short silence, she began the conversation in a low voice. “You are A. L., I presume, sir?” “Ves,” ECOMicoOOKS.CoOm —_)