"I fancy I know already," said Raeburn. "It is about your friend
at the High School, is it not. I thought so. This afternoon I had
a letter from her father."

"What does he say? May I see it?" asked Erica.

"I tore it up," said Raeburn, "I thought you would ask to see it,
and the thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want
you to. How did you hear about it?"

"Gertrude wrote me a note," said Erica.

"At her father's dictation, no doubt," said Raeburn; "I should know
his style directly, let me see it."

"I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burned it," said Erica.

Then, unable to help being amused at their efforts to save each
other, they both laughed, though the subject was rather a sore one.

"It is the old story," said Raeburn. "Life only, as Pope Innocent
III benevolently remarked, 'is to be left to the children of
misbelievers, and that only as an act of mercy.' You must make up
your mind to bear the social stigma, child. Do you see the moral
of this?"

"No," said Erica, with something between a smile and a sigh.

"The moral of it is that you must be content with your own people,"