"Your daughter will help you to make out my scrawl" in a prominent postscript; that was clear enough. Now to post it.
The end of the little episode, so delicate, so transient! Men were rather brutal, weren't they? Well, when girls fell in love and were so charming! It was a shame, though, he thought, complacently. Poor little dear! The letter slid into the box. ***** Everything was going on just the same—and he was married. But then she had always known it must end so—every one had known it. There were two sorts of knowing, though, she thought, drearily,
It all seemed quite natural; even having no letter to expect when the post came in seemed so natural, and it had been the roseate moment of the day. Did everything happen so? It was odd. Browning's poignant question came into her head: "Does truth sound bitter as one at first believes?" She used to imagine he had been wrong for once ("that omniscient Browning of yours"), but now that she knew. . . . .
How was it? She could laugh quite naturally, read and be interested in her book. Stay, though! Yesterday she had been reading a story in which the heroine had reminded her of herself, and had, of course, loved and been beloved. She had shut that book hastily and taken up a volume of essays, but soon she had reopened and devoured it with envious, aching eyes.
That was the day after the telegram had come. It had stung her a little, though it had pleased her too. So even at that moment he had thought of her; but how sure he had been! . . . . It galled her; and, besides, it seemed to proclaim it all to the curious eyes around her. They were her own people, and she loved them and they her; but their eyes were curious. She caught stolen glances, inter-
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