“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. . . Of course a little daughter is a delightful thing enough. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. ‘I knew it. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. “Which one?” “The Miss Pellissier in whose rooms you were, and who sings at the ‘Unusual,’” Courtlaw answered. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks.
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