What a cursed
thing he should ever have been civil to her! And what a cursed fool he
was ever to have cared a straw for such a low-minded creature as that
Letty! Thank Heaven, he was cured of that!

Cured?--He had fallen away from love--that was all the cure!

Like the knight of the Red Cross, he was punished for abandoning Una,
by falling in love with Duessa. His rage against Letty, just because of
her faithfulness, had cast him an easy prey into the arms of the
clinging Sepia.

And now what more could Mary do? Just one thing was left: Mr. Redmain
could satisfy Mr. Wardour of the fact he would not hear from her!--so,
at least, thought Mary yet. If Mr. Redmain would take the trouble to
speak to him, Mr. Wardour must be convinced! However true might be what
Mr. Wardour had said about Mr. Redmain, fact remained fact about Sepia!

She sat down and wrote the following letter:

"Sir: I hardly know how to address you without seeming to take a
liberty; at the same time I can not help hoping you trust me enough to
believe that I would not venture such a request as I am about to make,
without good reason. Should you kindly judge me not to presume, and
should you be well enough in health, which I fear may not be the case,
would you mind coming to see me here in my shop? I think you must know
it--it used to be Turnbull and Marston--the Marston was my father. You
will see my name over the door. Any hour from morning to night will do
for me; only please let it be as soon as you can make it convenient.

"I am, sir,
"Your humble and grateful servant,
"MARY MARSTON"

"What the deuce is she grateful to me for?" grumbled Mr. Redmain when
he read it. "I never did anything for her! By Jove, the gypsy herself
wouldn't let me! I vow she's got more brains of her own than any
half-dozen women I ever had to do with before!"

The least thing bearing the look of plot, or intrigue, or secret to be
discovered or heard, was enough for Mr. Redmain. What he had of pride
was not of the same sort as Wardour's: it made no pretense to dignity,
and was less antagonistic, so long at least as there was no talk of
good motive or righteous purpose. Far from being offended with Mary's
request, he got up at once, though indeed he was rather unwell and
dreading an attack, ordered his brougham, and drove to Testbridge.
There, careful of secrecy, he went to several shops, and bought
something at each, but pretended not to find the thing he wanted.