the class to which she belonged.

I broke the letter open after a minute and read--

"DEAREST VICTOR,--Do come and see me as soon as you possibly can. A
scheme for the next canvas occurred to me last night, but I want you
to help me execute it. What about the manuscripts? If you can't
come, tell me. Bring Nous. LUCIA."

I smiled as I replaced the letter. The composition was rather
defective, and left the meaning decidedly indistinct. If I could not
come I was to tell her. Tell her what? About the MS., or that I
couldn't come?

And under what circumstances was I to take Nous? Apparently if I
could not do so.

I was not sneering at the little note, and it went into my breast
pocket, but it amused me.

"That is the way I ought to write for the British, I suppose?" I
muttered, with a yawn. "Muddle all one's language up until nobody
has the faintest idea of what the author's sentiments are, and then
they don't know whether he means anything heterodox or not."

I got up. I might as well obey the orders I had just received.

There was a tired confusion of thought in my brain--a floating mass
of half-formed embryonic ideas, wishes, plans and suggestions filled
it that were quite useless for prompting or guiding any definite