the boy you saved. He is very kind, and he knows all. May God
guide you aright, and may you believe that no one speaks more
truthfully to you than your sorrowful and affectionate sister,

ALICE WINGFIELD.

He put the letter down beside him, made a cigarette, and poured out some
coffee for them both. He was holding himself with a tight hand. This
letter had touched him as nothing in his life had done since his father's
death. It had nothing of noblesse oblige, but straight statement of
wrong, as she saw it. And a sister without an open right to the title:
the mere fidelity of blood! His father had brought this sorrowful life
into the world and he had made it more sorrowful--poor little thing--poor
girl!

"What are you going to do?" asked Andree. "Do you go back--with Delia?"

He winced. Yet why should he expect of her too great refinement? She
had not had a chance, she had not the stuff for it in her veins; she had
never been taught. But behind it all was her passion--her love--for him.

"You know that's altogether impossible!" he answered.

"She would not take you back."

"Probably not. She has pride."

"Pride-chat! She'd jump at the chance!"

"That sounds rude, Andree; and it is contradictory."