o belief in rich people; only a hard distrust
of whatever they did. That was wrong; he knew it. He blew a cloud of
smoke to the ceiling and spoke aloud, impatiently. "All the same,
they're none of them any good," said Geoffrey McBirney, and directed
himself to stop worrying about this thing. And with that came a sudden
memory of a buoyant, fresh voice saying tremendous words like a gentle
child, of the blue flash of eyes only half seen in a storm-swept
darkness, of roses bobbing.

McBirney flung the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and lifted
the neurotic clock: twelve-twenty. The postman came again at twelve.
He would risk the rector and the bishop. Down the stairs he plunged
again and brought up at the mail-box. There was a letter. Hurriedly,
he snatched it out and turned the address up; a miracle--it was from
the girl. The street door darkened; McBirney looked up. The rector
and the bishop were coming in, the others at their heels. He thrust
the envelope into his pocket, his pulse beating distinctly faster, and
turned to meet his guests.

When at three o'clock he got back to his quarters, after an exciting
meeting of an hour, after lunch at the rectory, after seeing the bishop
off on the 2.45 to New York, he locked his door first, and then
hurriedly drew out the letter lying all this time unread. He tore
untidily at the flap, and with that suddenly he stopped, and the
luminous eyes took on an odd, sarcastic expression. "What a fool!" he
spoke, half aloud, and put the letter down and strolled across the room
and gazed out of the window. "What an ass! I'm allowing myself to get
personally interested in this case; or to imagine that I'm personally
interested. Folly. The girl is nothing to me. I'll never see her
again. I care about her as I would about anybody in trouble.
And--that's all. This lunacy of restlessness over the situation has
got--to--stop." He was firm with himself. He sat down at his table
and wrote a business note before he touched the letter again; but he
saw the letter out of the tail of his eye all the time and he knew his
pulse was going harder as, finally, he lifted the torn envelope with
elaborate carelessness, and drew out the sheets of writing.

My dear Mr. McBirney [the girl began], did anybody ever tell a story
about a big general who limbered up his artillery, if that's the thing
they do, and shouted orders, and cracked whips and rattled wheels and
went throug