I have, with a tact which I hope you have silently
appreciated, always managed to keep out of my Christmas letter any
reference to what you know I have never given up hoping for even
against hope. But this time I can't keep it out because I have had a
really good idea. Even a Civil Servant may have a good idea
sometimes, and I assure you that this came to me out of office
hours--as a matter of fact it came to me when I was sitting in that
funny little old Westminster churchyard where we once spent what
was, to me, the happiest of half-hours.

"I know you have thought me unsympathetic and disapproving about
that which holds for you so great a fascination. Disapproving, yes;
I can't help disapproving of gambling, especially in a woman; but
unsympathetic, no--a thousand times no. Sympathy is understanding,
and, believe me, I do understand, and therefore I propose this plan.

"If you will do me the honour of marrying me, I propose that once or
even twice every year you should go off to Monte Carlo, or wherever
else you like, and play to your heart's content. I promise never to
reproach you, above all never to administer those silent reproaches
which I think are always the hardest to bear. Yes, I will always
play the game, I pledge myself to that most faithfully.

"Forgive me for referring to something which makes my plan easier to
carry out. This year two accidents, the death of one colleague, and
the premature retirement of another, have pushed me up the ladder of
promotion, and, in addition, there has been a legacy. The English of
that is that for our joint _menage_ we shouldn't want your income at
all; we could quite well do without it, and you would be perfectly
free to use it in whatever way you like.

"There! That is my plan. Now, dearest of women, say yes and make us
both happy, for you would make me so happy that I couldn't help
making you happy too. I wish I had any idea where you will be when
you read this letter, on which hangs all my hopes. Perhaps you will
read it at Monte, out on the Corniche Road. Don't let the fact that
you have been lucky at play make _me_ unlucky in--you know what!

"Yours ever (this is no figure of speech),

"Mark Gifford."

Blanche Farrow sighed and smiled, as she deliberately read the long
letter through twice. Somehow it warmed her heart; and yet