By Frances E. Huntley
291
It was long, illegible; she spelt it out slowly to her wondering, faltering heart. "This was what he had written—this?
"A nice letter, very friendly, Eh, Effie?"
"Yes, very—nice. Very—friendly."
She escaped.
In her room at last. "He wrote that? That?"
Her eyes met the wide dark ones in the mirror.
"Poor girl! oh, the poor, poor girl!" The mirror looked clouded, vanished quite, grew clear again.
"To think I could ever have loved him!"
For a moment she hid her shamed, white face.
"Feel up for a game of tennis, Ronald, Sydney, Edith!" her voice pealed out. One must do something to work off this mad joyous thrill of freedom, liberty . . . . looking forward!
She dashed down the stairs with a wild whirl of frills and lace-edges.
