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Updated: May 25, 2025
On the wide veranda of the Carrillo home John caught his first glimpse of Consuello's father and mother, seated restfully in porch chairs. He saw both had snow white hair. "Here we are there's daddy and mamma," Consuello said, waving to them. They started across the lawn to the house, Consuello skipping a few steps ahead of him.
Tell us, what are you newspaper men saying about this rumpus between the mayor and me? What do you think of what I'm doing? Have you any suggestions?" John hesitated before answering. What he had heard the mayor say to Brennan was confidential. Even had he been at liberty to tell it he doubted if he would have disclosed it, for Consuello's sake.
Sprockett's husband trailed her from house to house in the neighborhood evenings while the Sprockett baby wailed for attention. He drew Consuello's note from his pocket while he and his mother were in the living room after dinner and read it again. He debated in his mind what he should do and finally handed it to his mother without a word. Mrs.
Sprockett hurried after her husband, who had started toward their home with the baby on one arm and the other around Alma's shoulders. John took Consuello's hand and whispered to her, "You wonderful, wonderful girl." Inside, while Mrs. Gallant rearranged the dinner table and prepared portions for three instead of two, she related to him what had occurred.
He remembered having told Gibson when they met in Consuello's dressing room that newspapermen were questioning why he did not attack "Gink" Cummings and he remembered Gibson's answer that he was about to make such a move. "By George, Gallant," exclaimed Brennan, "your little experience this afternoon is liable to turn the town over, if I'm not mistaken.
Like a halo, sunlight shone around her face, through the loose tresses of her hair, giving it an ethereal appearance. So intently did he study every move, every expression of Consuello's on the screen that he had completely overlooked the story of the photoplay.
From the hamper "John J. Silence" brought them two small baskets, covered with snow-white napkins, containing sandwiches, a piece of pie, a slice of cake, ripe olives, salted almonds and paper cups, which, at Consuello's suggestion, John filled with water from the stream. "I don't blame him," remarked John as they settled down to enjoy the basket luncheon. "Who?" "Gibson," he said. "For what?"
He remembered Consuello's father telling him that as late as 1870 there was only one street lamp a gas one in Spring street, although there was agitation among the citizens to have the city council add another light to put "as far south as First street."
Sprockett left the office, John, unable to wait a minute longer without hearing her voice, telephoned to Consuello's home. He wanted to tell her again that he loved her, and again and again, and he wanted to hear her tell him, as she had before he left her, that her "dreamings had come true, the brightest and the best." But it was Betty instead of Consuello who answered his call.
The thought frightened him. It had never occurred to him before that she might know. Somehow, he had not dared to imagine that she cared enough even to guess that he loved her. He went slowly to the opening in the hedge of boxwood that lined the sidewalk in front of Consuello's artistic little dream home and turned into the pathway between the patches of rosebushes.
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