“The War Office regrets that my husband has been killed in action.” It was now the Swede’s turn to be startled. “Your husband...? Perhaps I’d better...” “Don’t be a bloody fool,” said Elizabeth sharply, “he went out of my life years ago. _She’ll_ mind, but I shan’t.” She cried a bit in the bathroom, however; but the Swede was certainly a very attentive lover. They drank a good deal of brandy, too. * * * * * Next day Elizabeth wrote to Fanny the first letter she had sent her for months: “Only a line, darling, to tell you that I have a telegram from the W. O. to say George was killed in France on the 4th. I thought it would be less of a shock for you to hear it from me than accidentally. Come and see me when you get your weeps over, and we can hold a post mortem.” * * * * * Fanny didn’t reply to the letter. She had been rather fond of George, and thought Elizabeth heartless. But Elizabeth, too, had been fond of George; only, she wasn’t going to give it away to Fanny. I saw a good deal of Elizabeth while settling up George’s scanty estate—mostly furniture and books in the flat, his credit at Coxe’s, a few War Bonds, a little money due to him from civilian sources and Elizabeth’s pension. However, it meant a certain amount of letter-writing, which Elizabeth was glad to have me do. I also saw Fanny once or twice, and took her the trifles George had left her. But I never saw the two women together—they avoided each other—and when my duties as executor were done, I saw very little of either. Fanny went to Paris in 1919, and soon married an American painter. I saw her in the Dome one night in 1924, pretty well rouged and quite nicely dressed, with a party. She was laughing and flirting with a middle-aged American—possibly an art patron—and didn’t look as if she mourned much for George. Why indeed should she?