“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. No instrument I've ever used has done me such good service. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ‘Jarvis Remenham was your mother’s father. The two young fools laughed until they cried. " She showed him the locket; and he studied the face. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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