Believe me,
Yours truly,
M. J. Schlegel


Margaret sent this letter round by post. Next morning
she received the following reply by hand:


Dear Miss Schlegel,

You should not have written me such a letter. I
called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad.

Ruth Wilcox


Margaret's cheeks burnt. She could not finish her
breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told her
that the youth was leaving England, but other things had
seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her
absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place
arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox.
Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the
mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe
to those who employ it without due need. She flung on a hat
and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog,
which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter
remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the