Gerty continued to regard him with her piquant cynicism.

"Well, if it wasn't Madame Alta it was somebody who is voiceless," she
retorted coolly. "I merely meant that there must have been a reason."

"Oh, your 'reasons'!" ejaculated Perry. Then he stooped and gave the
letter lying on Gerty's pillow a filip from his large pink forefinger.
"You haven't told me what you think of this?" he said.

Picking up the letter Gerty unfolded it and read it slowly through from
start to finish, the little ripple of sceptical amusement crossing and
recrossing her parted lips,

RAVENS NEST,
Fauquier County, Virginia,
December 26, 19--.

_My Dear Perry_: Nobody, of course, ever accused you of being
literary, nor, thank Heaven, have I fallen under that
aspersion--but since the shortest road to success seems to be by
circumvention, it has occurred to me that you might give a social
shove or two to the chap who will hand you this letter sometime
after the New Year.

His name is St. George Trent, he was born a little way up the
turnpike from me, has an enchanting mother, and shows symptoms of
being already inoculated with the literary plague. I never read
books, so I have no sense of comparative values in literature, and
consequently can't tell whether he is an inglorious Shakespeare or
a subject for the daily press. His mother assures me that he has