“I find it very hard to write this letter. ” “Possibly—bit by bit. ’ She moved quickly to the nearest bookcase, and listened intently to the sound of Jack’s voice. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. But I want to know what you are doing. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Recollect that. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac.
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