Eve decided that she had been possessed. Some malignant devil had entered into her soul, distorting truth, ranting of motes and beams, raising a false resentment of a fictitious injury. To say that she missed him is to call Leviathan a fish. Only the fetish that she must do his will saved her alive. The night of his going she lifted up her head, shook the tears from her eyes, and answered two letters that she had left too long. . . . And now four months had gone by. . . . Sitting before the fire, Eve thought of the past with blank, see-nothing eyes. For the millionth time she wondered where Jeremy was, how he was faring, what he was doing to live. Never had riches seemed so empty, luxury so drear as they had seemed since she had been alone. The thought that, as like as not, he was going hungry tore at her heart. . . . She picked up the paper to try to distract her thoughts. Staring straight at her was the advertisement of _The St. James’s Review_. This was announcing the contents of the current issue. Third on the list was: _BABEL . . . . Jeremy Broke._ A child fell upon the telephone. . . . A sub-editor or someone was speaking. “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to give his address, but if you write him a letter care of this office, it will be sent on at once.” “All right,” said Eve. “Thank you.” A child’s letter went off by messenger within half an hour. _MY DARLING JEREMY_, _I would like to come to you if you will tell me where you are. I have tried very hard to do what you would have liked ever since you went, and if you had been here I should have been very happy. Please let me come, because, if you don’t, I don’t think I shall be able to go on. I would try, of course, but I think I should break. I’ve tried to write calmly, darling, but I shall be very glad to hear as soon as you can. Oh, Jeremy, my precious, I suppose you couldn’t wire._ _Your very loving_ _EVE._ No sooner had the letter been dispatched than a terror that it would miscarry flung into Eve’s heart. She saw it being mislaid, forgotten, let to join the faded habitués of some dusty mantelpiece. Of course she should have marked it ‘_Important_,’ enclosed it in a note to the editor saying how serious it was, asking for it to be expressed or sent by hand. Then, at least, he would have taken action. Besides, it _was_ serious—desperately so: and urgent—most urgent. Yet she had done nothing to accelerate a reply—_nothing_. What a fool she was! She had certainly asked him to wire, but why not to telephone? If the letter had gone to him by hand and he were to have telephoned. . . . The tide of apprehensive impatience rose to an intolerable height. . . . Eve rose to her feet and stood twisting her fingers. After a moment, trembling a little, she stepped to the telephone. . . .