Therefore I read with a callous heart the effusions of the Belgian damsel. But then I gathered my attention. For the letter went on, “_Notre cher petit bébé_—our dear little baby was born a week ago. Almost I died, knowing you were far away, and perhaps forgetting the fruit of our perfect love. But the child comforted me. He has the smiling eyes and virile air of his English father. I pray to the Mother of Jesus to send me the dear father of my child, that I may see him with my child in his arms, and that we may be united in holy family love. Ah, my Alfred, can I tell you how I miss you, how I weep for you. My thoughts are with you always, I think of nothing but you, I live for nothing but you and our dear baby. If you do not come back to me soon, I shall die, and our child will die. But no, you cannot come back to me. But I can come to you, come to England with our child. If you do not wish to present me to your good mother and father, you can meet me in some town, some city, for I shall be so frightened to be alone in England with my child, and no one to take care of us. Yet I must come to you, I must bring my child, my little Alfred to his father, the big, beautiful Alfred that I love so much. Oh, write and tell me where I shall come. I have some money, I am not a penniless creature. I have money for myself and my dear baby—” I read to the end. It was signed: “Your very happy and still more unhappy Élise.” I suppose I must have been smiling. “I can see it makes you laugh,” said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked up at her. “It’s a love-letter, I know that,” she said. “There’s too many ‘Alfreds’ in it.” “One too many,” I said. “Oh, yes—And what does she say—Eliza? We know her name’s Eliza, that’s another thing.” She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mocking laugh. “Where did you get this letter?” I said. “Postman gave it me last week.” “And is your husband at home?”