In Which I Play Golf and Cross the Channel And so we began “to live for each other again,” Hephzy and I. This meant, of course, that Hephzy forgot herself entirely and spent the greater part of her time trying to find ways to make my living more comfortable, just as she had always done. And I--well, I did my best to appear, if not happy, at least reasonably calm and companionable. It was a hard job for both of us; certainly my part of it was hard enough. Appearances had to be considered and so we invented a tale of a visit to relatives in another part of England to account for the unannounced departure of Miss Morley. This excuse served with the neighbors and friends not in the secret and, for the benefit of the servants, Hephzy elaborated the deceit by pretending eagerness at the arrival of the mails and by certain vague remarks at table concerning letters she was writing. “I AM writing 'em, too, Hosy,” she said. “I write to her every few days. Of course I don't mail the letters, but it sort of squares things with my conscience to really write after talking so much about it. As for her visitin' relatives--well, she's got relatives somewhere in England, we know that much, and she MAY be visitin' 'em. At any rate I try to think she is. Oh, dear, I 'most wish I'd had more experience in tellin' lies; then I wouldn't have to invent so many extra ones to make me believe those I told at the beginnin'. I wish I'd been brought up a book agent or a weather prophet or somethin' like that; then I'd have been in trainin'.” Without any definite agreement we had fallen into the habit of not mentioning the name of Little Frank, even when we were alone together. In consequence, on these occasions, there would be long intervals of silence suddenly broken by Hephzy's bursting out with a surmise concerning what was happening in Bayport, whether they had painted the public library building yet, or how Susanna was getting on with the cat and hens. She had received three letters from Miss Wixon and, as news bearers, they were far from satisfactory. “That girl makes me so provoked,” sniffed Hephzy, dropping the most recent letter in her lap with a gesture of disgust. “She says she's got a cold in the head and she's scared to death for fear it'll get 'set onto her,' whatever that is. Two pages of this letter is nothin' but cold in the head and t'other two is about a new hat she's goin' to have and she don't know whether to trim it with roses or forget-me-nots. If she trimmed it with cabbage 'twould match her head better'n anything else. I declare! she ought to be thankful she's got a cold in a head like hers; it must be comfortin' to know there's SOMETHIN' there. You've got a letter, too, Hosy. Who is it from?” “From Campbell,” I answered, wearily. “He wants to know how the novel is getting on, of course.”