the intellectual joys.

She finished her supper, and then sat down to write to her husband. Was
she going to tell him anything about the incident of the afternoon? Why
should she? Why should she give him the chance of becoming more than
ever Lady Dunstable's friend--pegging out an eternal claim upon her
gratitude?

Doris wrote her letter. She described the progress of the spring
cleaning; she reported that her sixth illustration was well forward, and
that Uncle Charles was wrestling with another historical picture, a
_machine_ neither better nor worse than all the others. She thought that
after all Jane would soon give warning; and she, Doris, had spent three
pounds in petty cash since he went away; how, she could not remember,
but it was all in her account book.

And she concluded:

I understand then that we meet at Crewe on Friday fortnight? I have
heard of a lodging near Capel Curig which sounds delightful. We
might do a week's climbing and then go on to the sea. I really
_shall_ want a holiday. Has there not been ten minutes even--since
you arrived--to write a letter in?--or a postcard? Shall I send you
a few addressed?

Having thus finished what seemed to her the dullest letter she had ever
written in her life, she looked at it a while, irresolutely, then put it
in an envelope hastily, addressed, stamped it, and rang the bell for
Jane to run across the street with it and post it. After which, she sat
idle a little while with flushed cheeks, while the twilight gathered.

* * * * *

The gate of the trim front garden swung on its hinges. Doris turned to
look. She saw, to her astonishment, that the girl-accountant of the
morning, Miss Wigram, was coming up the flagged path to the house. What
could she want?

"Oh, Mrs. Meadows--I'm so sorry to disturb you--" said the visitor, in
some agitation, as Doris, summoned by Jane, entered the dust-sheeted
drawing-room. "But you dropped an envelope with an address this
afternoon. I picked it up with some of my papers and never discovered it
till I got home."

She held out the envelope. Doris took it, and flushed vividly. It was
the envelope with his Scotch address which Arthur had written out for
her before leaving home--"care of the Lord Dunstable, Franick Castle,
Pitlochry, Perthshire, N.B." She had put it in her portfolio, out of
which it had no doubt slipped while she was at work.

She and Miss Wigram eyed ea