_I’m writing this letter because if I don’t, I shall go mad. My gorgeous engagement ring glares at me: the pearls George has given me sprawl, pale and indignant, by my side. I’ve taken them off. I don’t want his pearls about me; I want your arms._ _Simon, that last night here we buried our love alive—our glorious, blessed passion, we buried alive. I must have been mad. I suppose I thought it’d die—if I thought at all. I was nearly out of my mind that awful night. I did faint once—in your arms, but you never knew it. . . . “Die?” It’ll never die. Think what that means. A living thing immured, that can never die. That can starve, but never to death. . . ._ _I want to unearth it, Simon. I must. I must have it back to dandle and cherish and clasp—to warm my soul and body—bring the blood back into my heart. I must . . . I must. . . . But I can’t dig it up without you. We buried it together, and, if it’s to be unearthed, it’s plain I can’t do it alone._ _Oh, Simon, my king, have mercy. For once in your life be weak. Go back on your word—for once. I’ve spoiled our flower by writing. Well, spoil it, too. We’ll plant another, my blessed, that we shan’t have to pick. . . . Just breathe the word, and I’ll break my engagement off. And we can marry, my darling, and live or starve or die in each other’s arms. I don’t care how I live or whether I live at all, if I can be with you . . . you. . . ._ _Well, there you are. If ever a girl was at a man’s mercy, Simon, I’m at yours. If you’re going to steel your heart—well, I’ll go on. I must, I suppose. There’s nothing else for me to do. Besides, I don’t care. George Persimmon or a tramp I’ve never seen—what does it matter? It’s you—or anything, Simon. Because anything else is nothing. D’you understand?_ _We could live on three hundred a year. And if we couldn’t we could die. I’ve thought of it all. Squalor, dirt, rags—they wouldn’t count, Simon, beside the light in your eyes._ _I know I’ve broken my word. I know, I know. But if you don’t break yours, you’ll break my heart._ _Oh, Simon, I love you so._ _PATRICIA._ Simon dropped the letter and covered his face. Patricia watched him with the tenderest smile. She was quite calm now. She was out of the wood—in the sunlight. And Simon was close behind. In his own outrageous way, Fate had played into their hands. Suddenly Simon turned. “Oh, Pat—my lady . . . could you bear it?” His voice was shaking: his eyes, the eyes of a man looking into the promised land. “I couldn’t bear anything else,” said Patricia Bohun. “No cars, no servants, no clothes——” “No cares,” said Patricia tremulously. “I’m getting all excited. Besides, I’ve had my whack. And——” “But, Pat, think. We’ll be beggars. With that ten thousand behind us we might have put up a show, but——”