WHITEWASH
"Well," she demanded, "when will you see him?"
Philippa looked up wearily. "Don't you think you could manage this better?" she suggested. "Tell him I'm too ill to see him. You can say I'm so heart-broken over the unintentional wrong I did Victoria, you know."
The drum-major nodded. "I think so," she mused, "I think so. You had better stay in bed for the next few days, then we'll admit a few of your friends, and you can tell them that you must set Victoria right, that it's the only thing you are living for—that you are really too miserable to see any one, but you must undo the wrong you have done. Then, of course, I will deplore your trustfulness, and declaim against the creature's infamous use of your charitable nature." The drum-major positively smiled. The old war-horse of social diplomacy cried ha! ha! afar off, scenting battle. With a sweep of the ornate dressing-gown, the lady settled herself before Philippa's spindle-legged writing-desk, and drew out a sheet of becrested note-paper. The arms, crest, and motto "Fidelitas" were simply
