WHITEWASH
embossed in the heavy, white paper, and also adorned the flap of the envelope. From the recess where the creamy piles lay spread, arose a faint perfume of violets.
With strong, scratching gestures, Mrs. Ford penned her little note:
"Mr. Morton Conway,
"University Club.
"My dear Mr. Conway:—Philippa is, I fear, very ill. The doctors tell me that unless she gets some rest she may develop brain-fever. It is, therefore, impossible for her to answer your note or receive you in person. For the present I must be her proxy. If you will call at once, I should be pleased to tell you the particulars of her condition and her wishes for the future."
She signed with a decided upward tilt, and added the date and address—reread the epistle first to herself, then to Philippa, and rang for the maid. "And now, my dear," she added, rising and standing before the dressing-table, "I must dress to see him."
