sitting at the next table, elegantly dressed, laden with jewels, whose
laughter was incessant and speeches pointless--her companion found her
interesting enough, but Douglas was conscious of nothing save her
restless desire to please, her little bursts of frivolous mirth and an
ugly twitch of her lips which every now and then revolted him. It was a
chance, perhaps, or a mood, which made him look out upon a scene,
ordinary enough and inoffensive, through dun-coloured spectacles. He
paid his bill and walked thoughtfully homeward, thankful for the cool
night air which fanned his forehead. He even entered his bare
sitting-room and threw up the window with a positive feeling of relief.

He brought out his work, lighted a cigarette and sat there smoking
thoughtfully. The match which kindled his lamp showed him a large
square envelope on his mantelpiece. He tore it open and drew out a
letter. It was from Emily.

He read it eagerly. Whatever its message, it seemed a relief to him
just then to know that his suspense was to be ended.

"My FRIEND,--I am suffering from a slight accident--you alone know the
nature of it--and from a shock, the nature of which you cannot
understand. I am better, but my doctor is an old woman. He insists
upon sending me away. I am going--never mind where. It may be that we
shall not meet again for some time. I want you to think of me, my dear
Douglas, as kindly as you can. It seems to me that I am a very
unfortunate woman. Those whom I would befriend usually end by regarding
me as their worst enemy. Do not you also lose faith in me. Some day I
shall return, and I hope to find you famous. Work at your novel,
dedicate it, if no one who has more right to such an honour has come
into your life, to me, and, whatever you do, remember that I am always