He did not do so. He reflected that in the ordinary course of affixing them to the envelope he would put them to his lips in any case. It was not sense to do the same piece of work twice over. Jona. Should he, or shouldn't he? He knew that he shouldn't. Mabel would not like it. He ought to put Jona out of his mind, and to burn those stamps. But that was not economical. It was possible to have thirty stamps, and yet to avoid writing thirty love-letters to Jona. He folded them up and put them back in his pocket. What was it he had come up to do? He remembered. Mabel had asked him a question. He ran downstairs and rejoined her. "Because of the season ticket," he said. "What do you mean?" "Well, you asked me why I couldn't go by train. I could get a season ticket, but I should lose it the first day. Then they fine you forty shillings, and make you buy another. And that would go on, and on, and on until I was bankrupt and a beggar. And we should have to go down the High Street together, singing hymns. And you never did have any voice, and----" "Oh, that'll do," said Mabel, wearily. "Look here," he said, brightly, "I've brought you a present, Mabel. I think you will find these useful." He produced the postage stamps from his pocket. "Just a few stamps," he said. "All right," said Mabel, not taking them. "Stick them down anywhere." "They should be stuck down in the top right-hand corner," he said; "but I leave it all entirely to you." He went out. She had not even thanked him. CHAPTER VIII Effie Vessunt remained at Jawbones for a fortnight. At the end of that time Dot's knee had, so to speak, submitted and returned to barracks, and she could resume her ordinary work. Effie went to Bournemouth, where she took a position as kennel maid. Luke heard nothing from Jona. Occasionally he saw her name in the newspaper as one of those present at some social function. Twice he read that her husband had been fined for being drunk while driving a motor-car. Beyond this, nothing. Luke adhered to his resolution. He never sent her a letter. He wrote one. It was a long and passionate letter, full of poetry and beauty. But he never posted it. He made a paper boat of it. And launched it on that old-world stream. It floated away under the bridge, and on and on for nearly twenty yards. Then an old-world cow came down to the edge of the stream and ate it. The cow died. And so the months passed away. He completed another little monograph for the firm entitled "Pulp," of which he said beautifully that it was the beginning of all jam and the end of all books. Then he remembered that Jona had rather seemed to encourage him in his idea of writing his biography. He planned it all out in his mind. He pictured himself wrongly suspected, loathed by everybody (except Jona), suffering horribly, terribly ill. He thoroughly enjoyed it. He enjoyed it so much that he felt he had to tell Mabel about it. He did.