"I'm glad you think so, for I've always worn it like this. Alden wouldn't know me if I became fashionable." [Sidenote: It Isn't Right] "He doesn't look a bit like you," said Edith, irrelevantly. "No, but he's the living image of his father, and I'm very glad. It keeps me from--from missing him too much," Madame's voice broke a little on the last words. "It must be lovely to be missed," said Edith, quickly. "Now I----" "Dear, haven't you told him yet?" "He's probably discovered it by this time. Still, I don't know--I've only been away a week." "It isn't right," said Madame, decidedly. "You must let him know where you are." "Why? I never know where he is." "That doesn't make any difference. Two wrongs never make one perfect right. If you do your part, things will be only half wrong, instead of entirely so." "I'll do whatever you think best," said Edith, humbly. "I came to you because I could think for myself no longer. I'll write him a note before luncheon, if you say so, and post it this afternoon." "I do say so." Therefore luncheon waited for a few moments, to Alden's secret impatience, until Edith came down with her note. She offered it to Madame, doubtfully. "Want to see it?" "No, dear. I'll trust you." She sealed it with shamefaced gladness that Madame had not availed herself of the opportunity. She was quite sure that her counsellor would not approve of the few formal lines which were all she had been able to make herself write. [Sidenote: On the Way to the Post-Office] After luncheon, when Alden assisted her into Madame's decrepit phaeton, and urged the superannuated horse into a wildly exciting pace of three miles an hour, she asked to be driven to the post-office. "Thank you," said Alden, "for alluding to it as a drive. It's more like a walk." "It isn't exactly like going out in a touring car," she admitted, "but it's very pleasant, nevertheless. It gives you time to look at the scenery." "Also to photograph it if you should so desire. You don't even need to limit yourself to snap-shots. A time-exposure is altogether possible." When they reached the post-office, Alden took her note, and went through the formality of tying the horse. He glanced at the superscription, not because he was interested in her unknown correspondent, but because the handwriting claimed his attention. Through the delicate angular tracery he made out the address: "Mr. William G. Lee." The street and number were beyond his skill in the brief time he had at his command. "So," he said, when he came back, "you're Mrs. William G. I trust you don't call him 'William'?" [Sidenote: Mrs. William G.] "No--he's the sort of William who is always known as 'Billy.'" "Good! That speaks well for him."