ot know were there. So sweet is the
music that I can hardly give enough attention to make out the meaning
of her words. What she says does not so much matter as that she should
be speaking to me--to my ears alone.

And these things are merely the superficialities of her. There still
remains the princess herself below these wonderful externals. There
still remains the woman herself. Woman, any woman, is marvelous
enough, Covington. When you think of all they stand for, the fineness
of them compared with our man grossness, that wonderful power of
creation in them, their exquisite delicacy, combined with the
big-souled capacity for sacrifice and suffering that dwarfs any of our
petty burdens into insignificance--God knows, a man should bow his knee
before the least of them. But when to all those general attributes of
the sex you add that something more born in a woman like Marjory--what
in the world can a man do big enough to deserve the charge of such a
soul? In the midst of all my princely emotions, that thought makes me
humble, Covington.

I fear I have rambled a good deal, old man. I can't read over what I
have been scribbling here, so I must let it go as it is. But I wanted
to tell you some of these things that are rushing through my head all
the time, because I knew you would be glad for me and glad for her. Or
does my own joy result in such supreme selfishness that I am tempted to
intrude it upon others? I don't believe so, because there is no one
else in the world to whom I would venture to write as I 've written to
you.

I'm not asking you to answer, because what I should want to hear from
you I would n't allow any one else to read. So tear this up and forget
it if you want. Some day I shall meet you again and see you. Then I
can talk to you face to face.

Yours,

PETER J. NOYES.

Sitting alone in his room at the Normandie, Monte read this through.
Then his hands dropped to his side and the letter fell from them to the
floor.

"Oh, my God!" he said. "Oh, my God!"

Letter from Madame Covington to her husband, Monte Covington, which the
latter never received at all because it was never sent. It was never
meant to be sent. It was written merely to save herself from doing
something rash, something for which she could never forgive
herself--like taking the next train to Paris and claiming this man as
if he were her own:--

_Dearest Prince of my Heart_:--

You've been gone from me