he really forced her to say: "Don't miss your train," which kind
consideration for his comfort did not delight him as it should.
Nor, indeed, later did she herself recall the remark with
satisfaction.

With Latimer out of the way the other two hundred and forty-nine
suitor attacked with renewed hope. Among other advantages they
had over Latimer was that they were on the ground. They saw Helen
daily, at dinners, dances, at the country clubs, in her own
drawing-room. Like any sailor from the Charlestown Navy Yard and
his sweetheart, they could walk beside her in the park and throw
peanuts to the pigeons, and scratch dates and initials on the
green benches; they could walk with her up one side of
Commonwealth Avenue and down the south bank of the Charles, when
the sun was gilding the dome of the State House, when the bridges
were beginning to deck themselves with necklaces of lights. They
had known her since they wore knickerbockers; and they shared
many interests and friends in common; they talked the same
language. Latimer could talk to her only in letters, for with her
he shared no friends or interests, and he was forced to choose
between telling her of his lawsuits and his efforts in politics
or of his love. To write to her of his affairs seemed wasteful
and impertinent, and of his love for her, after she had received
what he told of it in silence, he was too proud to speak. So he
wrote but seldom, and then only to say: "You know what I send
you." Had he known it, his best letters were those he did not
send. When in the morning mail Helen found his familiar
handwriting, that seemed to stand out like the face of a friend
in a crowd, she would pounce upon the letter, read it, and,
assured of his love, would go on her way rejoicing. But when in