A week passed, and there came no reply. Mumford pretended not to
care much, but Emmeline imagined a new anxiety in his look.

'Do be frank with me, dear,' she urged one evening. 'Are we living
too--'

He answered her with entire truthfulness. Ground for serious
uneasiness there was none whatever; he could more than make ends
meet, and had every reason to hope it would always be so; but it
would relieve his mind if the end of the year saw a rather larger
surplus. He was now five-and-thirty--getting on in life. A man ought
to make provision beyond the mere life-assurance--and so on.

'Shall I look out for other advertisements?' asked Emmeline.

'Oh, dear, no! It was just that particular one that caught my eye.'

Next morning arrived a letter, signed 'Louise E. Derrick.' The
writer said she had been waiting to compare and think over some two
hundred answers to her advertisement. 'It's really too absurd. How
can I remember them all? But I liked yours as soon as I read it, and
I am writing to you first of all. Will you let me come and see you?
I can tell you about myself much better than writing. Would tomorrow
do, in the afternoon? Please telegraph yes or no to Coburg Lodge,
Emilia Road, Tulse Hill.'

To think over this letter Mumford missed his ordinary train. It was
not exactly the kind of letter he had expected, and Emmeline shared
his doubts. The handwriting seemed just passable; there was no