“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Then her head disappeared suddenly in her hands, and her shoulders shook violently. “I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter. He savored the last solo, the coda. Sheppard," said Jonathan, looking calmly on at this distressing scene, "Attend to me, and do not heed him. ‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times.
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