"Why couldn't she hold her tongue! That's just like a woman, to keep a thing quiet when she ought to speak of it, and bring it out when she had far better say nothing. I feel as if I had treated you badly, Hilliard. And the way you take it--I'd rather you eased your mind by swearing at me." "I could swear hard enough. I could grip you by the throat and jump on you----" "No, I'm hanged if you could!" He forced a laugh. "And I shouldn't advise you to try. Here, give me your hand instead." He seized it. "We're going to talk this over like two reasonable beings. Does this girl know her own mind? It seems to me from this letter that she wants to get rid of me." "You must find out whether she does or not." "Do you _think_ she does?" "I refuse to think about it at all." "You mean she isn't worth troubling about? Tell the truth, and be hanged to you! Is she the kind of a girl a man may marry?" "For all I know." "Do you suspect her?" Narramore urged fiercely. "She'll marry a rich man rather than a poor one--that's the worst I think of her." "What woman won't?" When question and answer had revolved about this point for another quarter of an hour, Hilliard brought the dialogue to an end. He was clay-colour, and perspiration stood on his forehead. "You must make her out without any more help from me. I tell you the letter is all nonsense, and I can say no more." He moved towards the exit. "One thing I must know, Hilliard--Are you going to see her again?" "Never--if I can help it." "Can we be friends still?" "If you never mention her name to me." Again they shook hands, eyes crossing in a smile of shamed hostility. And the parting was for more than a twelvemonth. Late in August, when Hilliard was thinking of a week's rest in the country, after a spell of harder and more successful work than he had ever previously known, he received a letter from Patty Ringrose. "Dear Mr. Hilliard," wrote the girl, "I have just heard from Eve that she is to be married to Mr. Narramore in a week's time. She says you don't know about it; but I think you _ought_ to know. I haven't been able to make anything of her two last letters, but she has written plainly at last. Perhaps she means me to tell you. Will you let me have a line? I should like to know whether you care much, and I do so hope you don't! I felt sure it would come to this, and if you'll believe me, it's just as well. I haven't answered her letter, and I don't know whether I shall. I might say disagreeable things. Everything is the same with me and always will be, I suppose." In conclusion, she was his sincerely. A postscript remarked: "They tell me I play better. I've been practising a great deal, just to kill the time."