P.S.--My lodgings are not permanent, so there would be little point in enclosing my address. Catherine was slow to grasp the full meaning of the note. As it dawned upon her her lips tightened, and she gripped fiercely the rail against which she was leaning. The tram lurched to a standstill, and there was the usual scramble to get down the stairs. “High Wood,” the conductor called out. “Come on,” said Helen, and they descended. In the Forest glades the night air was cool and sweet. For some distance they walked on in silence. Catherine was the first to speak. They had reached a clearing, and under the open sky the daylight still lingered. “I daresay you’d like to read it,” said Catherine. She held out the note at arm’s length. Helen gave a queer ejaculatory laugh. “I’ve already done so,” she said. “What?” “Oh, I know it’s not quite the thing to read other people’s letters.... But I wanted to know what ... what he would say to you, and I thought perhaps you wouldn’t show me.” Catherine crumpled up the note and put it in her pocket. “Well, you know, anyway,” she said gloomily. They passed again into the cool Forest glades. “I was right,” said Helen, quietly. “I knew he’d write you something like that. He’s good at that kind of letter-writing ... sort of cheap cleverness he excels at I’d half a mind not to let you see it.” There came a long pause. They had reached the high road to Chingford before it was broken. Catherine suddenly took the crumpled letter from her pocket, and began tearing it up into minute fragments. “See,” she cried passionately, “you can tell him this is what I did with his letter I You can tell him there’s better fellows in the world than he is, and Cathie Weston isn’t going to break her heart over _him_! ... Tell him I’m not a soppy little schoolgirl.” She flung the pieces on the ground, and began stamping on them. “You’re being silly,” said Helen, quietly. “And tell him,” went on Catherine, “that if he thinks he’s under an obligation to me, he’s made a mistake. I’m grateful to him--for letting me see what he really is.” Her words rattled like the passage of a lorry over granite setts. “Come on,” said Helen, “we’ll get to Chingford, and take the train back.” “You’ll tell him?” “I don’t promise. I think you’d better forget all about him ... after all, you can’t do anything....” “I don’t want to! I merely want him to know that I don’t mind.” “Well, that’s all right, then. He’ll know that if he hears nothing from you.” “He won’t. He’ll think he’s left a broken-hearted girl to cry over him.” “I don’t think he will.” “... because I don’t believe in being broken-hearted. I don’t think it’s possible to die of a broken heart. I’m certain I shan’t, anyway. I won’t let any man mess about with _my_ life. It’ll take a pretty big misfortune to make life not worth living to me. If he’s tired of me I’m just as tired of him. Tell him that!”