of many children of Apollo, who work so long for so little.
She danced their disillusions, their dreams of immortality, their lives,
their marriages, their little houses. She danced their fears of poverty
and starvation, their work and effort and strife, their hurrying home in
the darkness. She danced their middle age of growing families and all
their renewed hopes and disappointments and contentments. She danced a
little of the sorrow and all the joy of life. She danced old age and the
breathing night of London and the sparrow-haunted dawn. She danced the
silly little shillings which the children of Apollo earn. Fifteen
pirouettes for fifteen shillings, fifteen pirouettes for long rehearsals
and long performances, fifteen pirouettes for a week, fifteen pirouettes
for no fame, fifteen pirouettes for fifteen shillings, and one high beat
for the funeral of a marionette.

And all the time the gay October leaves danced with her in the grass.

"Well, I hope you've enjoyed yourself," said May. Jenny threw herself
breathless on the outspread rug and kissed young Frank.

"I don't suppose I shall ever dance again."

"What about the other letter?" asked May.

"There, if I didn't forget all about it," cried Jenny. "But who's it
from? What unnatural writing! Like music."

She broke the seal.

PUMP COURT, TEMPLE.

My dear Jenny,

I think I've been very good not to worry you long before this; but
I do want to write and wish you many happy returns. Will you accept
my thoughts? I got your address and history from Maudie Chapman
whom I met last week. I wonder if I came down to Cornwall for a few
days, if you would let me call on you. If you're annoyed by this
letter, just don't answer. I shall perfectly understand.

Yours ever,

Frank Castleton.

"Fancy," said Jenny. "I never knew his name was Frank. How funny!"

"Who is this Frank?" May inquired.

"A friend of mine I knew once--getting on for nearly four years ago now.
Where could anyone stay here?"

"There's an hotel in Trewinnard," said May.

Jenny looked at young Frank.

"I don't see why I shouldn't," she said.

"Shouldn't what?"

"Have a friend come and see me," Jenny answered.

Chapter XLIV: _Picking Up Threads_

Castleton arrived at Bochyn under a November sunset, whose lemon glow,
barred with indigo banks of cloud, was reflected with added brightness
in the flooded meadows and widening stream.