ch the
other had left.

Jean strolled up and down the lawn in an agony of mental composition and
presently she came back and began slowly to dictate.

Word by word Lydia wrote down the thrilling story of the girl's remorse,
and presently came to the moment when the heroine was inditing a letter
to her friend.

"Take a fresh page," said Jean, as Lydia paused half-way down one
sheet. "I shall want to write something in there myself when my hand
gets better. Now begin:

"MY DEAR FRIEND."

Lydia wrote down the words and slowly the girl dictated.

"_I do not know how I can write you this letter. I intended to
tell you when I saw you the other day how miserable I was. Your
suspicion hurt me less than your ignorance of the one vital
event in my life which has now made living a burden. My money
has brought no joy to me. I have met a man I love, but with
whom I know a union is impossible. We are determined to die
together--farewell--_"

"You said she was going away," interrupted Lydia.

"I know," Jean nodded. "Only she wants to give the impression----"

"I see, I see," said Lydia. "Go on."

"_Forgive me for the act I am committing, which you may think
is the act of a coward, and try to think as well of me as you
possibly can. Your friend----_"

"I don't know whether to make her sign her name or put her initials,"
said Jean, pursing her lips.

"What is her name?"

"Laura Martin. Just put the initials L.M."

"They're mine also," smiled Lydia. "What else?"

"I don't think I'll do any more," said Jean. "I'm not a good dictator,
am I? Though you're a wonderful amanuensis."

She collected the papers tidily, put them in a little portfolio and
tucked them under her arm.

"Let us gamble the afternoon away," said Jean. "I want distraction."

"But your story? Haven't you to send it off?"

"I'm going to wrestle with it in secret, even if it breaks my wrist,"
said Jean brightly.

She took the portfolio up to her room, locked the door and sorted over
the pages. The page which held the farewell letter she put carefully
aside. The remainder, including all that part of the story she had
written on the previous night, she made into a bundle, and when Lydia
had gone off with Marcus Stepney to swim, she carried the paper to a
remote corner of the grounds and burnt it sheet by sheet. Again she
examined the "letter," folded it and locked it in a drawer.

Lydia, returning f