Mr. Caldwell proved to be a young man, quite as nice-looking as the collar-advertising young men without being so desperately handsome. Cynthia liked him from the first glance. There was something that seemed very genuine about his soft collar and his candid, clean-shaven face and the little brown brief-case he carried. He had on brown woollen socks, too, she noticed, in one of those quick feminine observations. He seemed very embarrassed, and his face suddenly went ruby red.
"Is this Cynthia?" he said.
"Yes," said Ann, pushing aside a mass of lovelorn correspondence, and wondering what the trouble could be.
"My name's Caldwell," he said. "Look here, I suppose you'll think me an awful idiot, but I wanted to ask your advice. I—I wrote you a letter the other day, and your answer in the column made me think that perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me some help. I wrote that letter signed 'Sincerity'."
He was obviously ill at ease, and Ann tried to help him out.
"I remember the letter perfectly," she said.
"Did you take my advice?"
"Well, I'm a bit uncertain about it," he said.
