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Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. And no ill-chances. I came to see you on my own account. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON.
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