Loretta burgeoned. She swiftly developed personality. She discovered a
will of her own and wishes of her own that were not everlastingly entwined
with the will and the wishes of Daisy. She was petted by Jack Hemingway,
spoiled by Alice Hemingway, and devotedly attended by Ned Bashford. They
encouraged her whims and laughed at her follies, while she developed the
pretty little tyrannies that are latent in all pretty and delicate women.
Her environment acted as a soporific upon her ancient desire always to live
with Daisy. This desire no longer prodded her as in the days of her
companionship with Billy. The more she saw of Billy, the more certain she
had been that she could not live away from Daisy. The more she saw of Ned
Bashford, the more she forgot her pressing need of Daisy.

Ned Bashford likewise did some forgetting. He confused superficiality with
profundity, and entangled appearance with reality until he accounted them
one. Loretta was different from other women. There was no masquerade
about her. She was real. He said as much to Mrs. Hemingway, and more, who
agreed with him and at the same time caught her husband's eyelid drooping
down for the moment in an unmistakable wink.

It was at this time that Loretta received a letter from Billy that was
somewhat different from his others. In the main, like all his letters, it
was pathological. It was a long recital of symptoms and sufferings, his
nervousness, his sleeplessness, and the state of his heart. Then followed
reproaches, such as he had never made before. They were sharp enough to
make her weep, and true enough to put tragedy into her face. This tragedy
she carried down to the breakfast table. It made Jack and Mrs. Hemingway
speculative, and it worried Ned. They glanced to him for explanation, but
he shook his head.

"I'll find out to-night," Mrs. Hemingway said to her husband.