Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. As a matter of fact it isn’t their affair. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. But just now there is nothing which you or anybody can do. I have it about me. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. Amongst them was a revolver.
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