41 Stories by O. Henry

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.
    â€œAm 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.
    â€œYou wanted me,” said Nevada, simply, “and I came. You said so in your letter. What did you send for me for?”
    â€œYou read my letter?” inquired Gilbert, sparring for wind.
    â€œBarbara 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.”
    â€œAha!” 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 snowstorm? Will you do it?”
    â€œYou might have noticed that I would, long ago,” said Nevada. “And I’m rather stuck on the snowstorm idea, myself. I surely would hate one of those flowery church noon-weddings. Gilbert, I didn’t know you had grit enough to propose in this way. Let’s shock ‘em—it’s our funeral, ain’t it?”
    â€œYou 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 up in a little dressing-room, and called upon the lightnings of the heavens—condensed into unromantic numbers and districts.
    â€œThat you, Jack? You confounded sleepy-head! 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.
    â€œMy 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?”
    â€œI’ve got it cinched here,” said Nevada, pulling it out from beneath her opera-cloak.
    Gilbert drew the letter from the envelope and looked it over carefully. Then he looked at Nevada thoughtfully.
    â€œDidn’t you think it rather queer that I should ask you to come to my studio at midnight?” he asked.
    â€œWhy, no,” said Nevada, rounding her eyes. “Not if you needed me. Out West, when a pal sends you a hurry call—ain’t that what you say here?—we get there first and talk about it after the row is over. And it’s usually snowing there, too, when things happen. So I didn’t