"In the provinces?"

"M'yes; just at present, at Scarborough."

"But she writes to you?"

"Every day."

"Would you think it an unpardonable impertinence if I made bold to
ask whether it would be possible for you to show me a specimen of her
letters?"

He unlocked a drawer and took out three or four. Then he read one
through, carefully. "I don't think," he said, in a deliberative voice,
"it would be a serious breach of confidence in me to let you look
through this one. There's really nothing in it, you know--just the
ordinary average every-day love-letter."

I glanced through the little note. He was right. The conventional hearts
and darts epistle. It sounded nice enough: "Longing to see you again;
so lonely in this place; your dear sweet letter; looking forward to the
time; your ever-devoted Sissie."

"That seems straight," I answered. "However, I am not quite sure. Will
you allow me to take it away, with the photograph? I know I am asking
much. I want to show it to a lady in whose tact and discrimination I
have the greatest confidence."

"What, Daphne?"