ask you to do something. Will you write to her? Just a nice,
friendly little letter. She would be so delighted, she would indeed.
There's no harm in copying a line or two from what she sent me. 'Has
Mr. Hilliard forgotten all about me?' she says. 'I would write to
him, but I feel afraid. Not afraid of _you_, dear Eve, but he might
feel I was impertinent. What do you think? We had such delicious
times together, he and you and I, and I really don't want him to
forget me altogether?' Now I have told her that there is no fear
whatever of your forgetting her, and that we often speak of her. I
begin to think that I have been unjust to Patty in calling her
silly, and making fun of her. She was anything but foolish in
breaking off with that absurd Mr. Dally, and I can see now that she
will never give a thought to him again. What I fear is that the poor
girl will never find any one good enough for her. The men she meets
are very vulgar, and vulgar Patty is _not_--as you once said to
me, you remember. So, if you can spare a minute, write her a few
lines, to show that you still think of her. Her address is----,
etc."

To Hilliard all this seemed merely a pleasant proof of Eve's
amiability, of her freedom from that acrid monopolism which
characterises the ignoble female in her love relations. Straightway
he did as he was requested, and penned to Miss Ringrose a chatty
epistle, with which she could not but be satisfied. A day or two
brought him an answer. Patty's handwriting lacked distinction, and
in the matter of orthography she was not beyond reproach, but her
letter chirped with a prettily expressed gratitude. "I am living
with my aunt, and am likely to for a long time. And I get on very
well at my new shop, which I have no wish to leave." This was her
only allusion to the shattered matrimonial project: "I wish there