Lossiemouth's fortunes had altered, by asserting that he had had it in
his mind to write to this effect the previous Christmas but had not had
time. When Colonel Bellairs concocted that sentence he had felt, not
without pride, that it covered the ground of his fifteen years' silence,
and also showed that Lord Lossiemouth's wealth had nothing to do with
his recall. For the letter was a recall.

"Blundering old idiot," said Lord Lossiemouth, but he had become very
red.

All kinds of memories were surging up in him; Magdalen's crystal love
for him, her indefinable charm, her gaiety, her humility, her shyness,
her exquisite beauty.

Life had never brought him anything so marvellous, so enchanting, as
that first draught of April passion. And he had quenched his thirst at
many other cups since then. His lips had been blistered and stained at
poisoned brims. Why had that furious old turkey-cock parted him and
Magdalen! His heart sank for a moment at the remembrance of his first
love.

But what was the use! The Magdalen he had loved had ceased to exist. The
wand-like figure with its apple-blossom face faded, faded, and in its
place rose up the image of the thin, distinguished-looking grey-haired
woman who had supplanted that marvel. He had met Magdalen accidentally
once or twice in London of late years, and had felt dismayed anger at
the change in her, an offended anger not wholly unlike that with which
he surveyed himself at his tailors', and inspected at unbecoming angles,
through painfully frank mirrors, a thick back and a stout neck and jaw
which cruelly misrepresented his fastidious artistic personality.

He returned to his letters.

Three sheets in a firm, upright hand.

"I do not suppose you remember me," it began, "but I intend to recall
myself to your memory, which I believe to be none of the best. I am the
wife of Sir John Blore, and aunt to Magdalen Bellairs."

He flung the letter down. But this was intolerable, a persecution. And
what fools they were _all_ to write. Had Magdalen set them on?

He groaned with sudden self-disgust. What unworthy thought would come to
him next? Of course she knew nothing of this.

He looked at the date of each letter carefully. Aunt Aggie's according
to her wont had only the day of the week on it, just Tuesday, or it
might be Thursday--but Colonel Bellairs's and Lady Blore's were fully
dated, and about a fortnight apart. Colonel Bellairs had written last.

Lord Lossiemout