that the only letter you wrote?"

"Yes--will you have some more bread and butter?"

"And what letters did you get?" Clowes pursued his leisured
catechism while he helped himself daintily to a fragile sandwich.
This was all part of the daily routine, and Laura, if she felt
any resentment, had long since grown out of showing it.

"One from Lucian. He's in Paris--"

"With--?"

"No one, so far as I know," Laura replied, not affecting to
misunderstand his jibe. Lucian Selincourt was her only brother
and very dear to her, but there was no denying that his career
had its seamy side. He was not, like her father, a family
skeleton--he had never been warned off the Turf: but he was
rarely solitary and never out of debt. "Poor Lucian, he's hard
up too. I wish I could send him fifty pounds, but if I did he'd
send it back."

"What other letters did you have?"

Mrs. Clowes had had a sheaf of unimportant notes, which she was
made to describe in detail, her husband listening in his hard
patience. When they were exhausted Laura went on in a hesitating
voice, "And there was one more that I want to consult you about.
I know you'll say we can't have him, but I hardly liked to refuse
on my own imitative, as he's your cousin, not mine. It was from