more happy, now, than she had ever been in the splendid ennui of her divinity.
It was, to him, the plot of a great play. He was blind to the incongruity of his Santa Claus palace and his Homeric mythology; he saw nothing unworthy in his chorus-girl nymphs; he accepted it all as a thing so beautiful that it almost brought tears to his eyes. He hastened to his rooms to put the outlines of it on paper before he should forget them; and he noticed, then, for the first time, that it had begun to rain.
He found, in his box, a letter from Margaret. "Dear Don," it read, "we are coming home. I can't tell you. It's mother's fault. Mr. Berwick warned her against doing just what she did, and now the money's gone and I'm glad of it because the worry's over. I'm trying to be brave and not frightened, but I wish you were here to tell me what to do. I'll have to earn my own living, you know. If there's anything left it will not be more than enough for her. I want to see you as soon as we get to New York, I'm sure you'll be able to tell me. You must because I won't go back home and take music pupils and wear made-over dresses like Maud Browning, and the only thing is to find something in New York. I can sing, you know, and play a little, and there ought to be something.
"I must tell you, though, not to meet me at the boat because I quarrelled with mother about a man here. You never saw such shoes as he wore! He actually dared to ask mother if he could marry me without ever asking me what I thought about it, and I believe she wanted me to because he had money. I didn't dare to
