_I have carefully considered the conversation, which we had upon the telephone this morning, and I have come to the conclusion that, in the circumstances, your wisest course is, as you suggest, to take no further action._ _Since the Miss June Townshend, to whom you addressed your letter, has never in fact existed outside your imagination, and there is, therefore, no one with whom we can confront the woman, into whose hands that letter has fallen, the only possible move we could make would be to offer to buy the document back._ _As, however, your hands are perfectly clean, I agree that to make such a move would be beneath your dignity and that you can well afford to ignore such petty molestation as that to which this person may resort._ _An action for breach of promise could not possibly succeed._ _As I have already pointed out, her alteration of “June” to “Jane” has, in the absence of “the original,” no bearing upon the case._ _Yours faithfully,_ _F. S. Maple._ This note and its predecessor reached Sarah Vulliamy while she was dressing to dine tête-à-tête with George Fulke. Beyond that Sarah was unusually pensive, the dinner calls for no remark. * * * * * Exactly a month had slipped by. There had been rain in the night, and Luchon was looking her best. So was Mrs. Pardoner. She had just had a cold shower. Seated upon the edge of the breakfast table, one bare leg dangling from the folds of an apricot kimono, her curls in a disorder more lovely than any array, she periodically frowned upon a letter, regarded her new wedding-ring, and gazed at the sunlight upon the mountain-side. Presently she raised her voice. “Virgil.” A lapping noise in the bathroom was suspended. “Yes, darling.” “George Fulke says I’ve blighted his life.” “So you have,” said Virgil. “By not going to Dinard,” added Sarah. “Serve him right,” said Virgil. “He says he quite understood that ours was a marriage of convenience.” “So it was,” said Virgil. “Great convenience.” “But what shall I do?” said Sarah. “He says that his heart is ‘aching for a vivid, stimulating personality to fill the emptiness of life.’” Her husband appeared, swathed in a bath dressing-gown. “My dear,” he said, “it’s too easy. Take a fresh envelope and pass the letter on.” “Who to?” said his wife. Virgil fingered his chin. “The trouble is,” he murmured, “I’m not quite sure of her address. I think it was Bloughbridge.” MADELEINE MADELEINE It was upon the seventh day of September that Madeleine Peyre, of Ruffec, made a mistake. This was notable; first, because the lady was justly accounted wise, and, secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake was a bad one.