“C. Q.” or, In the Wireless House
John of Jerusalem, showing her in long hair and standing beside a big St. Bernard dog.
This was three years ago, and in all that time he had heard from her only once, and that was when she had mailed him a post-card from Cortina d’Ampezzo six weeks after his departure, showing a Tyrolese couple in dancing costume and bearing the strange and unintelligible symbols (save to Micky), “I. L. Y.”—which are the initials of the most important sentence in all history.
Those three years on the sea had made a man of him, but they had not changed his attitude toward Lady Evelyn or the Earl; and both the photograph and the Tyrolese dancers occupied a conspicuous position on the wall over bis bunk in the wireless house on the Pavonia. Yet during that time there had been many candidates for Lady Evelyn’s position—lithe, smoky Arab girls In Tangier, starchy pink-and-white stewardesses, smart daughters of prosperous resident officers, and many ladles of high degree on the first-cabin passenger list. But he had discouraged them all and kept his heart true to the memory of the grove behind the second gamekeeper’s.
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