MADE comfortable.

We'll build a house on the hillside just beyond the asylum--
how does a yellow Italian villa strike you, or preferably a pink
one? Anyway, it won't be green. And it won't have a mansard
roof. And we'll have a big cheerful living room, all fireplace
and windows and view, and no McGURK. Poor old thing! won't she
be in a temper and cook you a dreadful dinner when she hears the
news! But we won't tell her for a long, long time--or anybody
else. It's too scandalous a proceeding right on top of my own
broken engagement. I wrote to Judy last night, and with
unprecedented self-control I never let fall so much as a hint.
I'm growing Scotch mysel'!

Perhaps I didn't tell you the exact truth, Sandy, when I said
I hadn't known how much I cared. I think it came to me the night
the John Grier burned. When you were up under that blazing roof,
and for the half hour that followed, when we didn't know whether
or not you would live, I can't tell you what agonies I went
through. It seemed to me, if you did go, that I would never get
over it all my life; that somehow to have let the best friend I
ever had pass away with a dreadful chasm of misunderstanding
between us--well--I couldn't wait for the moment when I should be
allowed to see you and talk out all that I have been shutting
inside me for five months. And then--you know that you gave
strict orders to keep me out; and it hurt me dreadfully. How
should I suspect that you really wanted to see me more than any
of the others, and that it was just that terrible Scotch moral
sense that was holding you back? You are a very good actor,
Sandy. But, my dear, if ever in our lives again we have the